Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1848], Pierre, the partisan: a tale of the Mexican marches (Williams Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf150].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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PIERRE,
THE PARTISAN;
A TALE OF THE MEXICAN MARCHES.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT,
AUTHOR OF “THE ROMAN TRAITOE,” “MARMADUKE WYVIL,” “CROMWELL,”
“THE BROTHERS,” ETC. ETC.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAMS BROTHERS.
24 Ann-Street.
1848.
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Acknowledgment
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by Williams Brothers, in the Clerk's Office
of the District Court, for the Southern District of New York.
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CHAPTER I. THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER.
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It wanted an hour or two of sunset
on a lovely evening in the latter part of
September, when a single horseman
might have been seen, making his way
to the westward, across the high dry
prairie land, which lies between the
upper portion of the river Nueces and
the Bravo del Norte.
He was a small, spare man, of no
great personal power, but of a figure
which gave promise of great agility
and capability of enduring fatigue, the
most remarkable feature of which was
the extraordinary length of his arms.
His countenance, without being in
the least degree handsome, was pleasing
and expressive, with a broad and massive
forehead, a quick, clear, black eye,
a firm, well-cut mouth, and a character
of great acuteness, combined with indomitable
resolution.
His dress consisted of an Indian hunting-shirt
and leggins of buckskin, exquisitely
dressed, and adorned with
much fringe and embroidery of porcupine
quills, wrought in black upon a claret-colored
ground. His head was covered
by a high-crowned broad-leafed
hat of dark gray felt, with some heavy
silver ornaments in the band, and his
feet were protected by stout Indian moccassins.
In the wilderness, and on that frontier
especially, all men go armed, the traveller
depending on his weapons not only
for the defence but the subsistence of
his life; but the person I have described
was loaded with offensive arms
to a degree unusual even in that land
of perilous and cruel warfare.
A short, heavy English rifle, carrying
a ball of twelve to the pound, was
slung by a black leather belt across his
shoulders, the braided strap which supported
his large buffalo-horn powder
flask and bullet pouch of otter skin
crossing it on his breast. From a leather
girdle, which was buckled about his
waist, he had hung a long, straight,
two-edged sword in a steel scabbard
with a silver basket hilt on the left side,
which was counter-balanced by a long,
broad bladed hunting knife with a buck-horn
hilt, resting upon his right hip.—
There were holsters at the bow of his
large Mexican saddle, containing a pair
of fine duelling pistols with ten inch
barrels; and in addition to these, there
was suspended from the pummel a formidable
hatchet with a bright steel head
and a spike at the back, like an Indian
tomahawk, but in all respects a more
ponderous and superior instrument.
On the croupe of his horse, and attached
to the cantle of the saddle, he
carried a small valise of untanned
leather, with a superb Mexican blanket
of blue and scarlet strapped upon it,
and a large leathern bottle with a horn
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drinking cup swinging from it on one
side; while to the other was fastened a
portion of the loin of a fat buck, which
had fallen in the course of the morning
by the rifle of the traveller.
The horse which carried this well
appointed rider, was a dark-brown thoroughbred
of great power and action,
at least sixteen hands in height, and apparently,
though somewhat low in flesh,
in the finest possible condition. He
was perhaps what might be termed
somewhat cross-made, but his quarters
and arm were superb, and his deep
roomy chest showed ample space for
that breathing apparatus, so essential
to speed and endurance. He had one
white foot behind, and a broad white
blaze on his face, across which there
was a large seam, evidently the scar of
a long and severe broadsword cut; in
his fore-shoulder there was another
mark as of a stab with a lance or bayonet,
and on his left quarter the traces of
three bullets or grape shot.
None of these wounds had, however,
impaired either his strength or his
speed; nor had the long day's journey
which he had performed, diminished the
pride of his high slashing action, or
quenched in the least degree the wild
and fiery light of his untamed eye.
Nothing, in fact, could be more perfect
than the whole air and appearance of
both horse and rider. Though care and
grooming were manifest in the condition
and coat of the noble animal, the
arms and accoutrements of the man
were as bright and clean as if they had
just issued from the armory; his dress
was accurately neat and in perfect order,
and was worn with a sort of jaunty
smartness that bespoke the wearer something
of a frontier dandy. His bair,
which he wore long, was nicely arranged
and hung in dark curls over
his gay-colored neckerchief; and his
close curled beard had been trimmed
recently, and by a practiced hand.
His seat in the saddle was the perfection
of grace, ease, and neatness; yet it
was evident that in spite of the almost
careless freedom of his limbs, he rode
with as much power as grace, and that
there was a world of strength in the
swelling muscles of the thigh and leg
which rested so lightly on the embossed
and ornamented saddle.
The finger which played continually
with the long-checked, heavy curb on
which he rode his charger, was as light
and delicate as a feather; and the manner
in which the animal champed on
the solid port, tossing his head, and
making the bits ring and jingle merrily,
showed that he had a fine light
mouth, and that he felt no inconvenience
from the powerful bridle.
As the day wore on towards its close,
the rider began to strain his eyes somewhat
anxiously, directing them forward
as if in search of some object which he
greatly desired to see; but still as he
crossed swell after swell of the high
and prairie land, nothing met his gaze
but one low ridge succeeding another,
rising up bare and blealt, covered only
with long coarse grass withered beneath
the fierce rays of an American
sun, and interspersed here and there
with tufts and thickets of prickly pear
and other stunted thorny bushes.
There were no symptoms of verdure
or rich vegetation on this arid and barren
tract; no traces of any water whether
in the shape of streamlet, pool, or
fountain; all was dry, burned, and yellow,
almost as the scorched sands of the
Arabian desert. Neither were there
any signs of animal life in this ungenial
and treeless waste; no birds sprang up
from the thick grass before the feet of
the gallant horse; no deer or antelope
was seen bounding away across the skyline
of the near horizon; no hum of insect
life reached the ear of the rider, as
he passed steadily and rapidly onward.
At length, when the sun was no longer
above three times the width of his
own disc from the level line of the lowest
plain, he set his spurs to his horse,
and put him from the high slashing trot
which he had bitherto maintained, into
a long slinging gallop, which carried
him over the ground at the rate of some
sixteen miles the hour.
After he had ridden at this rate for
thirty or forty minutes, he reached the
brow of one of the low rolling waves of
earth, which constitute the surface of
the prairie, and thence saw the land
falling away in a long gentle slope for
some six miles toward the west, at
which distance it was bounded by a
long continuous line of dark blue
forest, with here and there the
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twinkling flash of some great body of water
shimmering out in the level sunbeams
from among the gigantic trees which
fringed its margin.
An exclamation of pleasure in the
English tongue, though spoken with a
slightly foreign accent, escaped from
the lips of the rider; and the horse
tossed his head and snuffed the air with
his broad distended nostrils, as if he inhaled
the pleasant freshness of the
stream upon the evening wind. They
did not, however, relax their speed in
consequence of the pleasure arising
from that long desired view, but if anything
hastened more swiftly forward to
the spot which promised to both horse
and man repose and refreshment after
the toils of the long and weary day.
A short half hour brought them to
the forest just as the sun was setting;
and nothing can be conceived in nature
more lovely than the scenery of
that green wilderness. For about a
mile in width, on either side of the
grand, majestic river, the earth was
covered with the freshest and richest
greensward, as tender in its hues, and
as soft and elastic to the foot as the
finest English lawn. The whole of
this vast meadow was thickly set with
gigantic trees; live-oaks with their
deep evergreen foliage, and oaks of
every species, grown to a size of trunk
and spread of limb which we can barely
conceive, accustomed as we are to
the less luxuriant vegetation of the
northern forests. For the most part,
this belt of noble timber was completely
free from underwood, the trees
standing so far apart as to admit the
manœuvring of a regiment of horse
between their huge and massy bolls;
but in some places there were dense
thickets of bay, wild peach, and holly,
all matted and interwined with enormous
vines and creepers of every description,
so as to defy the entrance of
any intruder larger than a rabbit or a
rat into their green recesses. And
over all was spread the eternal canopy
of fresh, dark foliage, perpetually renewed,
and sheltering the moist soil
beneath it with an unchanged vault of
living greenery.
Through this wild paradise the mighty
river rolled its pellucid waves, rapid, and
deep, and strong, and as transparent as
the purest crystal.
Beautiful as was the picture in itself,
its loveliness was yet enhanced a thousand
fold by the contrast it presented to
the arid and burning plains, almost destitute
of vegetation, over which the way
of the traveller had lain; and the almost
intolerable glare, with which the
unclouded sun had scourged the head
of both horse and rider during the live-long
day.
Galloping his horse joyously over the
rich green turf the traveller soon reached
the river, at a spot where it was bordered
by a little beach or margin of
pure white sand, as firm and almost as
hard as marble; and, riding into the
clear cool water, till it laved the heaving
flanks of his charger, he suffered it
to drink long and deep of the pure beverage,
which had not touched its thirsty
lips since the early morning.
This duty done, he returned to the
shore, and selecting an oak tree of about
two feet in girth, around which the grass
grew unusually tall and luxuriant, he
tethered his trusty companion to its
stem by the lasso, or cord of plaited
hide which was coiled at his saddle
bow, allowing him a range of some
twenty yards in circumference,—removed
the heavy bit and ponderous saddle;
and not till then applied himself
to satisfy the urgency of his own thirst,
with water from the river slightly mingled
with the contents of the good leathern
bottle.
Having drank freely, he again returned
to the care of his horse which
he rubbed down carefully, washing its
eyes and nostrils, pulling its ears, chafing
its clean bony legs till they were
perfectly free from moisture, whether
of sweat or of the river water which had
bathed them so recently.
Then, after polishing his accoutrements,
as if for parade, he hung his
rifle and his broadsword from the fork
of a stunted oak tree, collecting some
dry leaves and branches, and, striking
a light from the ready flint and steel,
soon had a clear bright fire glancing
and flashing in a sheltered nook surrounded
on all sides but one, that where
his horse was tethered, by a dense and
impenetrable thicket of bays, prickly
pear, and holly.
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Within a few minutes half a dozen
twigs, fixed in the ground about the
blazing fire, supported as many steaks
of fat venison, each with a biscuit under
it imbibing the delieious gravy, and a
second with salt and pepper; all which
unusual dainties were supplied from
the small valise of the provident and
epicurean frontiersman.
While his supper was cooking thus,
and sending forth rich and unwonted
odors through the forest, our traveller
had prepared his simple couch, spreading
his handsome poncho on the deep
herbage, with his saddle arranged for
his pillow, immediately under the tree
from which he had suspended his gun
and sabre—his pistols, the locks and
coppercaps of which he carefully inspected,
and his tomahawk being laid
ready to his had beside it—his goodknife
never left his girdle—so that if
aroused from his slumbers by any
sound of peril, he might spring to his
feet armed at once, and prepared for
any fortune.
All the precautions which he took
were but the ordinary accidents—as a
painter would term them—of the life of
a frontiersman; but the nieety of his
arrangements, the neatness of his dress,
the extreme pains which he took with
his horse and arms, and above all the
unusual fare, the biscuits and condiments,
the leathern bottle, filled not
with rum or whiskey but with fine
Xeres wine, betokened tastes and habitudes
more cultivated, perhaps manners
more refined, than would be ordinarily
expected from the rover of the Texan
wilderness.
To render it, however, more apparent
than this that our traveller's condition
in life, and his acquirements, were
superior to the opinion men would naturally
form from his dress, and from
the place in which we find him, as he
cast himself down on the soft green-sward
near the fire, and ran his fingers
through the long rich curls from which
he had removed his hat, he began to
hum an air from a favorite opera, while
he inspected with a curious eye the approaching
end of his culinary preparations.
If, however, he had hoped to enjoy
his coming meal and his night's repose
without interruption, he had reckoned
without his host; for at the same instant
in which his charger ceased from
feeding, snuffed the air eagerly, and
uttered a low whining, the traveller
started to his feet and listened anxiously
for a moment, although there were
no sounds which could have been distinguished
by any human ear unsharpened
by the necessities and habits of a
woodman's life.
Satisfied apparently that something
was at hand, which might mean mischief,
he quietly took up his pistols and
thrust them into his girdle, reached
down his rifle from the branch on
which it hung, loosened his woodknife
in its scabbard, and passed the handle
of his hatchet through a loop in his
sword-belt, so that the head rested in
a sort of fold or pocket in the leather,
evidently prepared for its reception, and
the haft lay close on his left thigh.
The broadsword he entirely neglected,
as if it were a weapon of no utility
in the struggle which he expected, one,
perhaps, which he bore only as a horseman's
arm, and which might be
held to imply that he acted at times in
company with others, and those disciplined
horsemen.
These preparations made, silently,
promptly, yet deliberately, he stooped
and laid his ear to the ground; nor did
he raise himself to his full height for
several minutes. “Two, four, six,
eight”—he muttered to himself at intervals—
“yes, there are eight of them!
By heaven, it is too great odds—yet I
had fain halt here, for Emperor has had
a hard day of it—” he paused a moment
as if in doubt, then quickly replaced
his bits in the charger's mouth,
and the saddle on his back, and hung
his broadsword and blanket on the pummel;
but he did not unfasten the lasso,
nor did his compressed lip, flashing eye,
and curled nostril, show any disposition
to abandon his position and his supper.
Again he laid his ear to the ground
and listened. “Yes, there are eight of
them, sure enough,” he again muttered;
and then after a pause, he added, “but
two of them are mules, I think; and they
are coming right down hitherward.”
Then he looked to his rifle-lock, and
cocked his piece. “Unless they turn
aside when they reach the timber, they
will be on me in five minutes; and, if
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they know the forest, they will not turn,
that's certain; for here's the only place
where you can find hard bottom to ride
in and out of the old Bravo, for ten
miles up and down.”
He paused from his soliloquy, listened
again, and then a smile crept across
his intelligent face. “Bah!” he said.
“I have disquieted myself for nothing—
they are dragoon horses: I can tell their
managed pace; though, what the devil
brings dragoons hither, the devil himself
best knows.” Then he hung up his
arms as before; again removed saddle
and bridle from his horse, threw down
his pistols and his hatchet on the grass,
and, instead of concealing himself in
ambush, unarmed except his woodknife,
stepped quite at his ease forth from the
covert of his thicket, and strode boldly
forward to meet the new-comers.
CHAPTER II. THE LADY AND HER COMPANY.
Great as was the surprise of the frontiersman
at discovering by the keenness
of his ear, and that peculiar sagacity,
half reasoning, half instinctive, by
which men living in what may be called
a half-savage state of life jump at once
to what others would necessarily deem
most unforeseen conclusions, that the
approaching party consisted of dragoons,—
far greater was his wonder, when he
saw precisely of whom that party was
composed.
He had not advanced above a hundred
yards from the spot where his horse
was tethered and his fire burning, before
he discovered the little band of
travellers just entering the belt of timber,
at not above a hundred yards distance
from the point, where he himself
had ridden into it from the open prairie.
They consisted, as he had instantly
discovered by the niceness of his ear, of
eight animals, six of which were mounted,
the other two being beasts of burthen.
This in itself was a singular arrangement
for men travelling through a
perilous and hostile wilderness, where
celerity of progress is the object to be
attained far more than comfort or convenience;
and where for the most part,
men rely for their subsistence on their
rifles and ammunition, and for their
personal comforts on the smallest possible
knapsack or valise.
That, however, which instantly
caught the eye of the rover was the
form of a female, and a female evidently
of the superior classes, forming one
of the party, which beside herself consisted,
as he saw at half a glance, of an
officer and four privates of dragoons, or
mounted rifle-men.
All this the woodman had discovered
long before he was himself descried by
the soldiers, who rode on, one private
thrown forward in advance of the lady
and the officer, who rode abreast, with
his rifle or carbine slung and ready for
service, two others following, each
leading a heavily laden pack mule,
and the last bringing up the rear, with
his weapon likewise in his hand—all
seemingly unconscious that they were
in the neighborhood of any human being.
This in itself was little calculated to
impress the woodman with any great respect
for the soldierly qualities, much
less for the woodcraft, of the new-comers;
and perhaps it was from a desire
to examine into these a little more closely,
that he drew himself somewhat
aside from the direction of their advance,
and concealed himself behind
the stem of a huge live oak.
“Precious lads truly, these,” he muttered
through his teeth, “to be travelling
the prairies, and not see my trail at a
short hundred yards. By the Lord! I
believe they will cross it, without notice.”
And indeed, as he spoke, the line, in
which the party was advancing, would
evidently intersect the track which his
own horse had made through the deep
herbage and soft soil of the grassy meadow,
from the surface of which the great
timber-trees shot up so massive and luxuriant.
Now they were within ten yards of
it, yet the vidette, or scout, in advance,
had evidently taken no note of it. But
at this moment, when our traveller was
beginning to laugh in silent scorn at the
proceedings of the soldiers, whom he
evidently regarded as little or nothing
worth, the party came to a sudden halt;
not in consequence of any alarm
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communicated by the trooper in advance,
but at a word passed onward to the head
of the little column from him who
brought up the rear, and who now cantered
forward, and saluted as he addressed
his officer, pointing to the broken
grass and trampled soil, indicating the
passage of some heavy animal, at less
than thirty yards distance on their left
flank, from which, when he noticed it,
he was the farthest distant of the whole
party.
The officer in command immediately
rode on, and after inspecting the trail
rather narrowly, and having it would
seem, satisfied himself of its nature
drew his party a little more closely together,
and caused all his men to un,
sling and prepare their rifles. Then
altering his course, which would have
intersected the track near by the frontiersman,
he followed it directly downward,
towards where his horse was standing.
“Ha! he has seen the shodden hoof,”
muttered the woodsman to himself,
and so feels secure that it is not a Camanche,
who has preceded him. A poor
criterion too, when the whooping devils
have stolen so many of our troop horses
in the lastthree months. Besides, what
tells him it is not a Mexican Ranchero
who has passed, and may be leading
him into an ambush. He might see
that, it is true, by the size and roundness
of the track; it is not every mustang
or Spanish horse sets down such a
foot as Emperor. Now, if I had my
rifle and my bull-dogs with me, how I
could pick off that lieutenant and two
out of his four fellows, before they
should know what hurt them. By
heaven! if they show no more wit than
this after they get into the Spanish country
fairly, they will scarce reach Old
Zachary with whole skins. I'faith I'm
glad, for the girl's sake, I fell in with
them, though what in the devil's name
they should be bringing a girl out here
into the wilderness for, is more than
I can guess. Well! well! that's no affair
of mine—but I'll give them a fright
any how—so here goes,” and with the
words he elapped his hand to his mouth,
and uttered a long drawn Indian yell,
which made the arches of the forest
echo and re-echo its cadences, till it
died quavering in the far distance.
The rifles of the little party were
cocked in an instant, and two or three
were instinctively cast up, and levelled
in the direction whence the sound proceeded.
But the woodman did not wait for any
farther demonstrations of hostility, but
stepped calmly forth from his covert,
calling out, as he did so, in a loud clear
voice—“whither, and whence, friends,
so carelessly this bright evening?”
But ere his words were half out of
his lips, he was interrupted by the sharp
crack of a rifle, discharged at him within
twenty paces, the ball of which sang
past his head perhaps at a foot's distance.
But, entirely unmoved by the
assault or by the peril he had run, he
finished his sentence quietly, and then
added—
“A miserably bad shot that, my
lad; and a most unsoldierly act to fire
a shot at all, without waiting orders.
Do not you say so, lieutenant?”—
But before he had spoke, the officer
had opened his mouth to reprimand the
unlucky dragoon; who was in fact no
other than the vidette, who had so stupidly
overlooked the track on entering
the timber; and he continued to do so
sharply, sending the man to the rear
and ordering him to relieve one of the
soldiers who led the pack mules, before
he gave any attention to the stranger.
That done, however, without replying
to his question, he said quickly—
“You are very much to blame yourself,
fellow; first, for yelling in that
wild fashion, as if for the very purpose
of creating an alarm, and then for approaching
a command so rashly. Who
are you, fellow? speak!”
“Fellow! fellow!” replied the other
half soliloquising—“and a command—
hey! precious command truly! a couple
of camandus, or one of Jack Hays' men
would make an end of such a command,
before it had seen where to throw away
one bullet. So you desire to know who
I am, lieutenant? Now, it is usual in
the prairie, or the timber, for the stronger
party to answer such questions first;
but, in the first place, as I know very
well who you are, and in the second, as
I am not at all clear that you are the
stronger, I have not so much objection
to divulge.”
He spoke so well and correctly, and
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his manner was so gentlemanlike, though
he uttered his words with something of
a bantering expression and a half contemptuous
smile, that the young dragoon
officer perceived at once that he had mistaken
his man in a degree; and his tone
was altered, as he again addressed him.
“Well, sir, and who are you, then,
I pray?”
“Pierre Delacroix, at your service.”
“What? he, who is commonly known
as Pierre—”
“The Partisan, lieutenant,” interrupted
the other quietly; “yes, I am
the man; and my horse, Emperor, of
whom you have heard, since you have
heard of me, is down in the brake yonder;
and what is a better thing just
now, there is a good fire burning, and
some venison steaks ready by this time,
if they be not overdone, and a flask of
good Sherry wine and some cool water;
and if you and your fair lady will share
the supper of the Partisan, I shall be
happy to think that I am pardoned for
the slight alarm I gave you; and after
supper we will hear what has brought
you hither, and what I can do to serve
you. Is it a bargain?”
“Surely it is; and very thankful
shall we be for your hospitality, and
yet more for your advice This is the
famous soldier, Julia,” he continued
turning to the lady, who accompanied
him, “of whom you have heard so
much, and whom we had hoped to meet
at San Antonio. It is most fortunate
that we should have so unexpectedly
fallen in with you, at a moment when
we were indeed in no small perplexity
as to our next movement.”
“We will speak of this farther at the
camp,” replied the Partisan—for such
was the name in which he especially
rejoiced—bowing deeply to the lady with
the manners of one used to the society
of courts, no less than of camps; “for
it is growing late, and it will be quite
dark in a few minutes. Allow me to
show you the nearest way; you will
find but poor accommodations, lady, yet
poor as it is, it is better than mere frontier
fare.”
No more words were spoken until
they reached the spot which Delacroix
had selected for his bivouac; but, as
they did so, an exclamation of pleasure
burst from Julia's lips, at the romantic
beauty of the scene.
The watchfire of the Partisan, which
had by this time burnt up bright and
clear, was casting a wide ruddy light
over the rich greensward and dark foliage
over-head, glancing upon the arms
and accoutrements which hung or lay
around it, and dwelling wanly on the
rich hues of the Spanish blanket which
was spread on the ground, a fit cover
for a soldier. At a little distance, the
twilight shadows dwelt so deeply in the
long arcades of the forest, that nothing
could be seen except in the direction of
the broad and majestic river, on the bosom
of which all the light of the skies
appeared to be concentrated.
“How beautiful,” she cried, in those
soft, low, silvery tones, which are so
exquisite a thing in woman—“How
beautiful; and what is more, at such a
moment, how bright and cheerful-looking.
Why, Mr. Delacroix, instead of
the wild desperate chieftain I expected
to find in you,” she continued, turning
gaily toward the Partisan, “you must
have the eye of a painter, and the imagination
of a poet.”
“Spare me, I pray you, madame,”
answered Pierre, with a low, merry
laugh. “Should Jack Hays or McCulloch
hear what you say, I should
lose caste and character directly and
for ever. And yet,” he added, with a
half sigh, “I believe it is this touch of
romance—which finds its way more or
less into every heart, except that which
beats within the sordid breast of the
trader—that makes the joys, nay, the
very perils of a forest life, dearer to
thousands such as I, than all the charms
of civilized society, which some of us,
though you would hardly fancy it, have
tasted. But come, let me help you
from your horse, of which, by the distance
you have travelled, I should suppose
you must be more than a little
weary. Look to your men, lieutenant,
and I will do the honors to your fair
lady.”
And, with the words, he extended his
arms as if he would have lifted her
from the saddle; but she replied by a
merry ringing laugh—one of those
fresh, artless, genuine laughs, which
can proceed only from the lips of a
young, mirthful, unsophisticated woman
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—and patting the arched neck of the
beautiful thorough-bred mare which
carried her, “Oh, no!” she cried, “if
you will not allow me to disparage your
character, by attributing a little dash of
poetry to you, I must not let you fancy
me so very unfit for a soldier's wife,
as to be tired with a little ride of thirty
miles. Besides,” she added, again caressing
her favorite, “Nell goes more
like a bird through the air, than a more
earthly wingless Pegasus. Oh, no, I
can dismount unaided.”
And, extricating her knee gracefully
from the pummel of her side-saddle, she
gathered the long draperies of her dark
cloth riding-habit, and sprang lightly to
the ground; but she had either miscalculated
her strength, or she tripped as
she touched the earth, for she would
surely have fallen headlong, had not the
ready stalwart arm of the Partisan
caught her instinctively round the slender
waist, and given her the support
which she required though she refused
it.
“A thousand thanks!” she said, as
she extricated herself, blushing slightly,
from his half embrace. “I was both
wilful and awkward; and I believe I
must confess to a little weariness, also;
but I am afraid I am a bit of a spoiled
child, as you may learn to your cost, it
we journey far in company, Major Delacroix,
for I believe that is your correct
designation.”
The Partisan bowed, but made no answer:
so thoroughly were all his senses
engaged and absorbed on gazing on the
face and form of unrivalled loveliness
which now, for the first time, met his
gaze: since the darkness of the increasing
twilight, the lady's veil, and her
seat on horseback, had prevented him
from distinguishing clearly either her
person or her features.
But now, as she stood erect before
him, with the clear light of the blazing
woodfire falling full on her face, and
revealing all the charms of a figure, tall
as the tallest of her sex, voluptuous and
fully rounded, yet slight withal, and delicate
and slender as the fairest ideal of
a poet's dream, he thought that he had
never looked upon anything so perfectly
and femininely lovely.
Her face—of the exact oval, and
strictly classic outline—possessed that
innocent and almost infantile expression
which painters have ascribed only to
Madonna, and which is, perhaps, too
purely beautiful and unearthly in its
character to be very loveable, unless it
be relieved, as it was in this sweet being,
by an air of arch mirthfulness, and
by something which seemed to indicate
that there lay a world of passion sleeping
beneath that placid and child-like
exterior.
Her slightly arched eyebrows, and
long-fringed eyelashes, were many
shades darker than the redundant tresses
of her rich silky hair, which was of
the brightest and most golden auburn.
Her eyes were of that languid sleepy
blue, which is, perhaps, the rarest and
loveliest of all colors; her complexion
was the fairest and most delicate, and
her mouth, which was certainly the
most beautiful feature of her face, would
have been more than voluptuous, would
have been almost sensual, but for that
innocent and dove-like expression of the
other features, and for the artless gaiety
which smiled from its dimples.
It is, perhaps, the hardest thing on
earth to describe beauty; for in beauty
there is something more than mere outline,
than mere coloring: there is a spirit,
a soul, an intangible and indescribable
presence, which we feel rather than
see; which dazzles the eye, and dizzies
the brain, while it enthralls the heart;
and which not the painter's pencil can
altogether transfer to his glowing canvass,
much less the pen call up to the
eye of fancy.
This, nevertheless, is the true portraiture
of a true and most lovely woman;
and if it seem not so to the reader,
let him be sure that the fault is in
the artist, not the model; for Pierre Delacroix,
though in his younger days he
had seen many, and, as he then thought,
loved many lovely women, now felt at
once that he had never seen aught
which could match this paragon—in
truth, he had never loved till now, and
now he loved madly, hopelessly, yet for
ever.
For some moments he stood gazing at
her, mute, and positively breathless with
admiration; then, suddenly recollecting
himself, and mastering his surprise and
delight, though not without something
of an effort, he called to the nearest of
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the dragoons, bidding him lead the lady's
horse down to the river, and water him;
and then conducted her respectfully to
the place where he had spread his poncho
on the grass, and with the aid of
that and his large saddle, arranged for
her an extemporaneous arm-chair near
the fire, which the fresh coolness of the
woods rendered not wholly needless,
even at that season; while the thin
smoke which rose from the wood embers,
kept the mosquitoes at a distance.
Meanwhile, some of the dragoons applied
themselves to clean the horses and
accountrements, while others unloaded
the pack mules, and unbuckling the
bags and cases which they carried, produced
camp-kettles and canteens, and a
small India-rubber tent and camp-bed,
which was speedily set up and prepared
in the methodical manner of the old soldier,
and promised better accommodation
for the lady, than she could well
have looked for in the forest.
By this time, the chargers were
cleaned and tethered, two or three fires
were lighted, and the camp-kettles were
filled—one with the beef and pork which
compose the soldiers' rations, and another
with coffee, while hastily kneaded
cakes were baking in the embers.
The men, having got through their
labors, lay stretched around the fires,
smoking or chatting over the adventures
of the day; and the lieutenant who commanded
them, having inspected everything,
and satisfied himself that all was
safe for the night, strolled up to the
quarters (if they may be so termed) of
the Partisan, who was engaged, when
he came up, in serving his forest meal
on plates and dishes—to him a long unknown
luxury—borrowed from the dragoon
canteen, and mixing his sherry
and water—to her as great a luxury—
for his fair unknown visitor.
“I could not join you sooner,” said
the young officer, as he came up; “for
I could not leave the men. They are
good fellows enough in barracks, or in
the field with an enemy before them;
but they are new hands at this bivouacking
and catering for themselves and
their horses, and would make but poor
work of it, if I were not for ever at their
heels.”
“I do not doubt it,” replied Delaeroix,
“or I should rather say, I know
it. A hundred of us woodmen would
live on the fat of the land, with nothing
but our rifles to depend on, where a
score of your dragoons would starve,
for all their pack mules and rations.
You are poorly escorted, lady, for the
wilderness.”
“Oh! we have done vastly well thus
far,” she replied gaily, “and I begin to
look upon it all as a mere frolic: I heard
so much of danger where I have not as
yet met with privation, that I fancy all
the dreadful stories I have heard were
mere exaggerations.”
“I trust they may all prove so in the
end,” said the Partisan, rather gravely.
“At all events, it shall not be my fault
if they do not. But my cooking is
ready, lady, such as it is; and I fancy
you have the Spartan sauce, which
makes even the black broth palatable.”
Julia started a little at the classical
allusion, and cast a quick glance toward
her young husband, whose attention had
been fixed on another portion of the
roving soldier's speech, and who said
quickly, repeating the Partisan's word:
“Lady! Indeed I have been strangely
remiss and discourteous, Major Delacroix.
In the first hurry of our introduction,
I forgot to name ourselves to
you, though Yankee like; yet, I assure
you, I am not a Yankee!—I by no
means forgot to extort from you all that
I wished to know. Not a very unpardonable
thing that a soldier should be a
little ganche, but very funny that a
pretty lady should. I should have
imagined, Jule, that you would have
found tongue enough, by this time, to
make yourself known to Major Delacroix;
but, since it seems you have not
done so, better late than never. Allow
me, Major Delacroix, to present you to
Mrs. Arthur Gordon, six weeks ago,
Miss Julia Forester, of New Orleans;
and that done, to call your attention to
my very humble and unworthy self,
Arthur Gordon, First Lieutenant of the
2nd Dragoons.”
He spoke gaily and merrily, but the
Partisan seemed to hear no more, after
the first few words of the introduction
were spoken; he had arisen to his feet,
for he had been seated by the fire busied
about his cookery, and bowed very
gracefully at the first name; but when
Arthur Gordon pronounced the words
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Julia Forester, he started forward and
exclaimed—
“What? what? it cannot be—the
daughter of my best and oldest friend,
Colonel John Forester? I recollect his
wife's name, whom I never saw, was
Julia.”
Julia Gordon blushed crimson, as he
spoke, and then, in an instant turned as
pale as ashes—
“My mother,” she gasped out, with
a great exertion of the will compelling
herself to speak at all. “My poor
mother, I never saw her either, at least
not within my recollection. Yes, Major
Delacroix, I am Col. John Forester's
wild and wilful daughter. God bless
him,” she continued, a big tear swelling
to her eye, “as he deserves a better
child.”
“Not so, not so, young lady. I am
certain that it is not so. A brighter or
more beautiful he could not have; and
it will be hard to convince me he could
have a better. Lieutenant Gordon allow
me to shake your hand, and congratulate
you; your father-in-law, and
your sweet lady's father, was, I may say,
to me more than a father; for when nature
robbed me of both my parents, he
supplied both their places, he taught me
all I know, and had I profited by his
teachings, instead of being a wild wandering
Partisan, I might have been a
scholar and a gentleman. Still there is
something decent about Pierre Delacroix
after all, and that something is all
good John Forester's. God bless John
Forester, and all who love and honor
him.”
So thoroughly was the Partisan engrossed
by his own warm and generous
feelings, that he did not perceive at all,
what would at any other time have been
sufficiently apparent to a man of his
keen and intuitive sagacity, that there
was something of evident discomposure
in the manner of the young officer as
he spoke to him of his father-in-law.
But he must have been not only morally
but physically blind, had he not
observed, as he turned again to the
daughter of his old friend, that her beautiful
face was buried in her hands, and
that the big tears were trickling fast
through her slender fingers.
By far too much a man of the world
to make the least allusion to circumstan
ces indicating mental affliction or strong
feeling of any kind, which no words can
alleviate; and at the same time, by far
too shrewd a judge of human nature to
attribute such a revulsion of manner and
thought to any casual accident, Pierre
Delacroix turned aside, and walking
down to the bivouac of the men, asked
a few trivial questions about their route,
the length of their marches and the like,
and then directing one of them to bring
up a can of coffee to the other fire as
soon as it should be ready, he returned,
marvelling greatly, and much disturbed
in his mind, not less by the violent and
overwhelming passion which he had so
suddenly conceived for a married woman,
than by the very strong suspicion
he entertained, that there was something
in the matter very seriously amiss.
Had the lady been out of the question,
he would have been under no difficulty
whatever; for, himself as free as the air,
and as true as his own rifle, he would
have asked as frankly of another any information
he might desire to gain, as he
would have imparted it himself if required
to do so.
But although in younger, perhaps
appier, days, he had mixed much in
female society, and had been liberally
and gently educated, years had now
passed since he became the rover of the
wilderness, the wild and daring Partisan,
whose name was known everywhere
from the eternal snows of Mount Elias
and the tempestuous waters of the wild
Columbia, to the luxuriant forests and
burned prairies of Texas and Mexico,
and even to the distant Cordilleras;—
years, during which it might be said
that he had scarce looked upon a lady
of his own class and station;—years, during
which his horse, his rifle, and his
broadsword, had been his only friends;
his comrades, but not his companions,
any chance wanderers that he might
find in field or forest, with whom to
consort for the moment.
And, with the lapse of time, it was
not so much that his tastes had changed,
or his manners deteriorated, as that he
lost the habitude of such society, and
the confidence in his own powers, which
is essential to success of any kind.
So that the man, who would have
ridden alone without hesitation into a
camp of hostile Blackfeet, the man of
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inexhaustible resource and indomitable
courage, the man who loved danger for
itself, trembled and almost blushed
through his weather-beaten and sunhardened
cheeks, in the presence of one
trembling girl.
Here he felt that he the veteran was
a tyro; here, he knew his own deficiency
in experience; here, he admitted
to himself that he might easily mistake
the landmarks of the human mind,
and blunder wofully and fatally, where
some mere city coxcomb of eighteen
would shine and perhaps subdue.
He determined, therefore, as a wise
and prudent man, to see all things, saying
nothing, suffering events to take
their own natural course, and reserving
to himself the power of acting, whenever
occasion should call for action in
behalf of the children of his oldest and
most esteemed friend.
It must by no means be inferred, because
it has been stated that he was
stricken by a sudden and violent passion
for the lovely woman he had so
strangely met in so unusual a place,
that the gallant Partisan had acknowledged
to himself the fact, or even suspected
for a moment that he loved the
lady. He felt, indeed, something wholly
different to any previous sensation of
his life; but, had any one intimated to
him that he was enamored of her, he
would have at once set him down for a
madman.
Yet he was in love, and that desperately;
though with that simplicity,
which is so common among those who
live hardily in the lap of nature, drawing
their excitements from the harder
and sterner passions of humanity, he
had neither endeavored to analyze his
own feelings, nor could have done so
had he desired it.
When he returned to the camp-fire
with the coffee, after the absence of but a
few minutes, the lady had recovered
her composure, although there was a
cloud on her young husband's brow,
and an angry light in his dark eye.
Sentiments, however, and feelings,
nay even strong passions must give
way before the ordinary wants of everyday
life. Men eat and drink amid the
most dreadful paroxysm of their least
selfish griefs, in the intervals of the
most repturous pleasure; and, when
the head of the house is scarce yet
cold, and not so much as consigned to
the sad coffin, the mourning family must
gather round the cheerless board, and
carve the joint, and pass the bottle, although
their hearts may be well nigh
breaking with inward agony.
And so it was with these chance
comrades of the prairie, on the eventful
night which first made them acquainted.
The green carpet of the
meadow was spread with their simple
fare, and the Partisan did the honors of
his camp with a singular blending of
the frontiersman's bluntness, and the
easy manners of the gentleman and
soldier.
There was, however, an inexplicable
gloom hanging over the little party,
and scarcely was the frugal meal
ended, before, on the pretext of weariness,
the lady retired to her tent, and
her husband went away for a few minutes,
as he said, to inspect his sentries;
while Pierre Delacroix filled his Indian
pipe with kinnekinnink, and
stretching himself at full length on his
blanket, in the warmth of the fire, rested
his head on his elbow, and mused more
deeply than he had done for many a
year, rolling out all the time great volumes
of the odoriferous smoke of that
Indian mixture, which he had learned
to prefer to the best Havana.
CHAPTER III. THE LIEUTENANT'S STORY.
The partisan had not sat long alone,
ere the young officer returned and joined
him; yet, in that brief space, almost
all the actions and adventures of a not
uneventful life had passed through his
mind: so strongly had his imagination
been excited by the occurrences of the
evening.
Nor was it only to a retrospective
view that his spirit was moved, for
something seemed to tell him that with
the persons and circumstances of this
night, coming events were to be connected;
and that the great crisis of his
life, whether for good or evil, was not
now far distant.
Feelings and forebodings of this nature
are by no means unusual with men
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[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
of ardent temperaments, and lively imagination;
and such a man, emphatically,
was Pierre Delacroix, although
familiarity with strange perils, and
great experience, and yet greater confidence,
in his own resources, had tempered
the heat of his blood, and overcome
the inborn rashness of his temper;
and, although he would have probably
been sufficiently astonished, had he
been accused of possessing a romantic
fancy, such surely was the case.
When these presentiments, as is the
case nine times in ten, are followed by
no results, they are forgotten as though
they had never been; when, on the contrary,
after events confirm them, they
are regarded as almost miraculous, and
narrated, from generation to generation,
as distinct proofs of a supernatural
agency, busy with the affairs of men.
Whatever may be the truth in this
question, it is not within the scope of
our unassisted intellect to determine it;
nor do we propose further to touch upon
it, than briefly to remark that such an
impression was now strong on the mind
of the partisan, and that, although in no
wise superstitious or liable to be diverted
from his equanimity, much less from
his course of right, by any similar influence,
he was still moved somewhat, and
was inclined to anticipate some coming
evil, the expectation of which neither
his reason nor his acquired instincts
seemed to justify.
When the young soldier joined him,
however, he shook off the strange sensations
which were creeping over him,
and sat upright to receive his guest.
“Come, Mr. Gordon,” he said, “I
fancy that by this time you have got
your men settled for the night. Had
you not better take your pipe, and sit
down with me, that we may talk matters
over. By something you let fall
awhile ago, it seems that you have been
expecting to meet me at San Antonia,
although I knew it not, nor have been
there these two months. Now, you
must have had some end in seeking me;
and, until I know what that end is, I am
at a loss to see how I can aid you.”
“To make you understand that, Major
Delacroix—”
“Pardon me, sir,” replied the partisan,
hastily, “I have no great respect
for titles of any kind, least of all for
military titles, when not backed by military
rank and command. Now, it is
very true that I do hold a commission
as a major of Texan Horse, dating as
far back as the first blow that was struck
for independence; but I have not held a
command, nor have I struck a blow, or
fired a shot, these ten years, save for
my own pleasure; and I am no more a
major now, God be praised, than I am a
major-general, which seems to me about
the worst berth a man can hold now-a
under our government. No, sir,
I am Pierre Delacroix, or Pierre, the
partisan, or plain Pierre, just as men
choose to call me; but neither mister
nor major, nor any other gewgaw title!
Such things may do well enough in cities,
though I, for one, do not care much
about them, or think them very fitting
even there; but, in the wilderness here,
they are worse than nought. I'll none
of them. So, if you please, you will call
me Pierre, or Delacroix, or Partisan—
which most of my friends do call me—
as it best suits you. But none of your
majors!—No, no! none of your majors!
Browne was a major, for he had seen
service; and Pungold was a major, for
he did service; and the service lives
after the man, in the arm which he
created, and which won every battle on
this soil of Mexico, from Paloalto down
to Buena Vista. But I, no! no! God
be praised! I am no major—I command
no man but myself, and no man commands
me, now or ever.”
“To make you understand that, then,”
replied the young dragoon, a little embarrassed
by the manner of the Partisan,
and not exactly liking to address a person
who, whatever might be his present
position, had evidently at some or other
filled the place as he still preserved the
air of a gentleman, by tones so familiar
as he was directed to use—“I fear I
must trouble you with rather a long narrative.”
“The more need to begin it then at
once,” replied the Partisan dryly, “or it
will be morning before we have finished
it. Here is a pipe,” he continued,
reaching from his valise a curiously-carved
Indian bowl, which he fitted to a
stem and filled with the aromatic mixture
of tobacco, willow-bark, and some
sweet scented herb, “have you learned
yet to smoke kinnekinnink?”
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“Oh! yes, I was for some time stationed
at Prairle du Chien, and since that at
the Council Bluffs; quite long enough
I assure you to learn how to enjoy all
the good things of this western country.”
And receiving the pipe from his hand
he lighted it by aid of an ember from the
woodfire, and occupied himself so long
in drawing it, and setting it going, without
saying one word about the subject to
be considered, that Pierre began to grow
impatient.
“Well,” he said, blowing a great
cloud of smoke out of his mouth, “you
were going to tell me”—and he paused
enquiringly.
“Yes. But confound me if know
where to begin.”
“At the beginning I should suppose,”
said the Partisan who was less and less
satisfied with the manner of his guest.
“Unless I begin with my own birth,”
returned the other—“hang me if I know
where the beginning is.”
“I hope at least that I have nothing
to do with that,” said Pierre with a
grim smile.
“With what? I do not understand
you.'
“With your birth to be sure. But
for heaven's sake come to the point, you
keep dodging about the bush as badly as
a Mexican Guerrilla, and it is about as
hard to find you out where you would
be.”
“The truth is, that I hardly know
myself,” said the young man. “Except
that I wish to the Lord I was not here.”
“Look you here young gentleman,”
replied the Partisan coolly. “You either
have or have not something to say to
me. If you have, I shall be glad to hear
it, and that as soon as possible; first,
because I am something sleepy; and,
secondly, because if you wish my service,
I must know how to serve you,
which I will do gladly for your wife's
sake. If you have nothing to say, I
shall be glad to hear that; for then I
can go to sleep now, and in the morning
we can eat our breakfasts together, and
set upon our beasts, and shake hands,
and so ride away, never most likely to
meet any more.”
“No, no. That will never do,” cried
young Gordon. “For it is on you that
we have counted all along for taking us
safely to our journey's end.”
“Well. We have gained something
at least. Now, where may that very
definite place, which you call your journey's
end, be? and as the next question,
what made you count upon me?”
“Our journey's end,—Taylor's
camp of course, where else should it
be?”
“Anywhere else, I should think, considering
the means you have of getting
thither, and the company you have with
you! You do not really mean to say,
that you contemplate carrying that beautiful
and delicate young woman with
you to headquarters—the thing is utter
madness.”
“And yet my destination is head-quarters;
and she has no home, save my
tent.”
“Julia Forester—John Forester's
daughter no home!” cried the Partisan
in far louder tones than he was wont to
use, and starting to his feet, half indignant
and half astonished,—“Did I understand
you aright, young sir? Did
you say, Julia Forester has no home
save in the tent of a second liedtenant of
dragoons?”
“I did say precisely that, Pierre Delacroix,”
answered the soldier, nettled
a little by the manner of his questioner,
and shaking off his momentary embarrassment
the instant he was put upon
his mettle.
“When I knew Colonel John Forester,
he was reputed to be worth a million
of dollars,” said Pierre.
“When I knew him,” replied Arthur
Gordon, “he was reputed to be worth
two, at the lowest figure.”
“And has he become a bankrupt,
since then, or a beggar?” asked the
other sharply.
“Neither, that I ever heard. Au contraire,
he is, all but one or two, the
richest man they say in Louisiana.”
“And why the devil, then, did he
give you his daughter for a wife, and
not give you the means to sustain her?”
“I never said that he did give her to
me!” said the other steadily.
“You said she was your wife.”
“I did say so, and do.”
“You stole her from him, then,” and
he spoke with extreme severity, and
even laid his hand on the hilt of the
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only weapon he now bore—his hunting
knife. “You stole, from my old friend,
my second father, from honest brave
John Forester, his daughter—his only
child? Speak, young man, I must
know all now.”
“Stole is an awkward word, sir!”
replied Gordon, whose face had flushed
fiery red, while he was speaking. “A
very awkward word for one soldier to
hear applied to himself, by another.”
“A very awkward word, indeed,
sir,” answered the Partisan, even more
coldly than before, “to hear; but a
much more awkward thing to do. I
hope yet to hear that you have not done
it.”
“You take a very strange way of
learning. Insulting a man, is a new
mode of insinuating yourself into his
confidence.”
“Hark you, sir,” said Pierre Delacroix.
“Words are the names of
things, no more. All things have their
right names; and here, in the wilderness,
far away from the hollowness and
the falsehood of cities, men call things
by their right names. I do at least, always,
when I know them. Now you
tell me that Julia Forester is your wife,
and that John Forester did not give her
to you—therefore the only two modes
by which I can conceive your having
acquired her, are buying or stealing
her. Men do not generally sell their
daughters, except in Circassia—their
wives, some English noblemen, I believe,
and some of our Indians, I'm
told, do sell—therefore, I'm pretty sure
you did not buy her; and, thence, na
turally I deduce it, that you stole her.
Now I think stealing anything a very
bad act—even an Indian horse—thief's
horse. But to steal an old man's only
daughter is an atrocious act; and if
you have done that act, you must look
to hear that act called by its right and
very name.”
“In the first place, Julia is not John
Forester's only daughter—in the second
place, I must ask a definition of what
you are pleased to call stealing a man's
daughter.”
“Not John Forester's only daughter?
What do you mean, sir? Do not trifle
with me! It were not safe to do so;
least of all on this subject.”
`Before I reply, I await an answer
to my question. How do you define
`stealing a man's daughter?”'
“Carrying her off clandestinely, of
course; and marrying her without, or
against, his consent. That is what I
call stealing. You fine boys from the
cities call it `running away,' I believe,
or `eloping'—and think it a very knowing
trick. I call it `stealing'—and
think it a very dirty trick. Now do
you understand?”
“Perfectly; and, though I have
something farther to say by and bye
on the subject, I beg to inform you that
I did not steal Julia Forester; even by
your definition. Since, though I certainly
did carry her off, it was not clandestinely,
but with distinct notice given
that I should do so; and, though I certainly
did marry her in the very teeth
of her father's consent, I did so with as
open a face, and as honest a heart, as you
bear at this instant, Pierre Delacroix.
Now, sir,” he added, raising his voice
a little, “how did you dare to charge
me with stealing, before you knew the
fact that I had stolen, even according to
your own showing?”
“Pshaw! Pshaw! young sir, you do
not know your man. Pierre Delacroix
dares do anything.”
“Then I have been misinformed,”
returned the dragoon, with a great deal
of dignity. “For I have always heard
that Pierre Delacroix did not dare anything
which misbecomes a man.”
For an instant, the dark eye of the
Partisan flashed living fire; but, ere
another had elapsed, he had recollected
himself, and controlled his hasty temper;
and he replied with perfect quiettude
and self-respect.
“I believe that you are right, Lieutenant
Gordon, and that I have spoken
with perhaps improper bluntness; but,
as I have said, we men of the southwest
do not stand on your city nicety of phrases,
and are apt to name things as it strikes
us that they are, whether good or evil.
Beside this, you must remember that
John Forester is the oldest friend I have
on earth; that I love, esteem, and venerate
him above every human being;
and that a wrong done to him, or his,
wounds me in the tenderest place. But
I was wrong, I admit it, to assume that
an injury had been done, however adverse
appearances might be, until I
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knew the fact. That was unwise and
unworthy of a man of experience. If
this will satisfy you, accept it. When
I have heard more of your tale, as I
ought to have done before speaking, I
may perhaps be enabled to offer you
more. Until then this must suffice.”
“And it does suffice,” answered Gordon.
sitting down, “for I can respect
your motives, even when I cannot tolerate
your manner. But it is possible
that a young man may be justified in
carrying off an old man's daughter;
and if you will be pleased to hear me
out, I think you will admit that I was.”
“It will be hard to make me believe
that John Forester was sordid, selfish,
or unreasonable; and unless he were
one of these I cannot conceive any justification.”
“What if he were under the dominion,
and acted at the dictation of another?”
“John Forester? impossible!”
“We are but playing at cross purposes.
You were best to hear me out, and so
substitute a short story for a long debate.”
“Pray let us do so.”
“It is six years since I first visited
New Orleans; and being the bearer of
letters to Colonel Forester was received
hospitably and entertained in his house,
where he then lived nominally alone,
with the exception of his only daughter,
Julia, at that time a beautiful girl of
fourteen. Being very young myself,
we were thrown much together; a sort
of childish affection, half liking and
half love, grew up between us—not altogether
childish either; for it constantly
increased, during three years which
I spent in the city, until it became a
powerful passion. So evident was our
mutual partiality from the very first
that it was a matter of constant jest
among the friends of the family; and
that Colonel Forester himself used to
call Julia, `Mrs. Gordon.' When I
entered the army, on the first raising of
the second dragoon regiment, and before
leaving the city for the northwest, I
had an explanation with the Colonel;
and it was understood, and agreed, that
at some future period, which was left
undecided, Julia should be my wife.
We were permitted to correspond, and
I mounted my horse and rode away
with my regiment, as light-hearted and
happy a soldier as ever set jack boot in
steel stirrup. Amid the wild excitements
of a frontier life, among hardships,
and toils and something of actual
perils, the reflection of the past and the
hope of the future never left me.—
from time to time—at long intervals, it
is true, but still sufficiently often to keep
interest and hope alive and warm within
me—I received letters from my betrothed,
of which I shall only say that they
were all that the most sanguine lover
could desire.
“After a while, however, a difference
in their tone became apparent. Not
indeed in the manifestation of affection
but of hope. There was a despondency,
a fear, an occasional expression of
anxiety and doubt—indefinite, and
coupled with strong injunctions, not to
comment upon it in my replies, which
was more than enough to harass my
mind, and drive me almost mad. Ere
long, the despondency expressed in her
letters increased. until it became something
skin to despair. She spoke openly
of adverse interests at work against
us, of under-hand and illegitimate influences,
with dark allusions to persecution
and domestic tyranny, from quarters
the most infamous and degrading;
but all still coupled with the injunction to
be silent; to hope for the best; and to
trust all to her affection. At length,
her letters ceased altogether; and I
was months without receiving any tidings
from her. When the present war
broke out I was sent castward to recruit;
and had no opportunity of visiting
New Orleans, although my brain
and my heart were both on fire to do so.
Three months since I received, the first
time for nearly a year, a short hurried
agonizing note from Julia, entreating
me to come to her, without an instant's
delay, as her misery was too great to be
endured, and one way or other she
must release herself from it.
“For once, fortune favored me; for
the same post which brought her letter,
brought orders to the captain of my
company to send me forward instantly
with the men we had raised, to the
very city in which I most desired to be.
A fornight afterward, I was on the spot,
and learned all the infamous and horrid
truth.
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“Your friend, the high and honorable
soldier, whom I had known of old—
the very pattern and impersonation of
uprightness, and chivalry, and true nobility
of soul—had so far lapsed in the
decline of his intellectual powers from
his once glorious standard, as to have
made a colored woman—his own emancipated
slave and formerly his mistress—
his lawful wife and the partner of his fortunes;
placing her openly at the head
of his table, and bringing his illegitimate
daughters, the offspring of his foul
concubinage, into equality of station
and society with his own beautiful, and
pure, and noble child—with my Julia!”
“Great God!” exclaimed the Partisan,
bounding to his feet almost in fury;
“Great God! can this be so? Can
age and the natural decline of the mental
faculties so change the highest and
most virtuous characters—so transform
the purest and most generous into the
base, the grovelling, the sensual—so
degrade the almost godlike man below
the animal? Great God! can this be
so? Would—would to heaven that he
had died before he did the deed of
shame! Would that I had been near
to him; for, by the Lord that liveth, if
neither argument nor entreaty should
have had power to prevail over such
low and beast-like passion, my hand—
my own hand, which has caressed his
cheeks and played with his grey hairs
so often—my own hand should have
spared him the infamy, and slain him
in his untained honor. Go on! go on!
Lieutenant Gordon—I have wronged
you—I have wronged myself by my
passion, by my suspicion! But who
could have dreamed of this? Go on!
go on! I will make you amends if it
cost me my life!”
“But this was not all, nor half of all
that poor Julia suffered; for the incarnate
devil, whom I must call Mrs.
Forester, not content with forcing the
deluded old man into the rescinding of
his will, and bequeathing all but a mere
pittance to herself and base-born children,
never ceased persecuting him
day or night, till she procured his promise
to send Julia secretly away to
Europe, there to be immured in a convent;
fearing unquestionably that if
she should be married to an American
gentleman and soldier, her husband
would find some means to frustrate the
enormities she had planned so artfully,
and secure a share, at least, of the partial
old man's fortunes. I had an interview
with him, though not without
much difficulty; I offered to forego all—
to sign away all claims on her behalf
and my own, provided he would give
me her hand, portionless and alone.—
For a while I thought I had prevailed;
but the fiend entered the room, and I
saw the old man quail before the gaze
of her fierce snake-like eye, and all
was lost. Then I, too, lost my temper;
and I swore by the God who made me,
and by the hell to which that woman's
deeds were leading her, that her plans
should be frustrated, and that Julia
should be my wife in spite of man or
devil. I got brief leave of absence, on
promise to join at head-quarters, before
the last day of the present month—embarked
my recruits with my second
lieutenant; and, on the third day after,
Forester's garden wall was scaled, his
daughter's window broken, and before
the day dawned she was my bride.
“Still flight was needful, and we
fled; for by his wrath, and the unscrupulous
wickedness of her who prompted
him, we might still have been separated
for a while, if not for ever. We
fled, I say, to Natchez, and thence to
Natchitoches, where by good fortune I
found the little squad of dragoons who
escort me, making their way down the
river to join my party, which they had
been detailed to enter as a veteran nucleus.
With them, and this letter to
yourself from an old friend of mine,
who has, I believe, lived with you,
Frank Arrowsmith of ours, I have made
my way thus far safely; though sorely
disappointed at not meeting you as I
hoped to do, in San Antonio de Bexar.
This is the whole that I have done—
you have heard all. The rest remains
with you.”
“Well, sir, you have done well. As
well as any man could do; and not
only as well, but the only thing that a
man and a gentleman could do, even if
it were for a woman he did not love.
Had he done otherwise, he would deserve
shooting. The rest, you say remains
with me; but what that rest is,
unless it be to offer you my hand, and
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[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
to ask your pardon very frankly for my
rudeness, I know not.”
“Oh! that is granted, I assure you,
without asking it,” said Gordon, evidently
well pleased at having got
through his unpleasant disclosure, and
wringing the hard hand of the Partisan
as heartily as it was freely offered. “I
meant, however, something very different,
as you will see, when you shall
have opened Frank Arrowsmith's despatch.”
“Which there would be mighty
little use in doing to-night, seeing that
our camp fires have all burned low,
and will soon be out,—which is a good
thing, by the way, since all the service
they could render us, would be to bring
down a half-dozen roving Camanches,
or some of that scoundrel Carrera's ragamuffin
horse upon our bivouac. I
could not see to read it if I were to open
it; and, as it regards yourself, I fancy
you can tell me the contents as well or
better than any one.”
“Why he expected that we should
find you at San Antonio—why, I am
sure, I do not know—”
“Nor I, by heaven! since I never
sleep in a town or in a bed three times
a year if I can help it,” said the Partisan.
“And in that expectation gave me a
letter to you, commending us to your
care. He told me that if you would
undertake it, you could guide us in safely
into Taylor's camp, through all the
guerillas in Mexico.”
“He did me too little, and too much
justice. Too little, in supposing that
there was any if about it. The idea
of Pierre Delacroix refusing to guide
or assist a lady in the midst of danger!
As to my being able to carry you safely
into Taylor's camp, that's quite
another thing. According to him, the
old Partisan is worth more than a whole
New York regiment—for the last news
was that Lally is cut off, and has laid
down his arms with all the eleventh, to
a horde of these guerilla vagabonds.
I don't believe one half of it, to be sure;
but what is true, is this, that not a
single train has got through safely in
the last four months—no, not the half
of a train, though they are convoyed
each by five or six hundred foot, and!
a company or two of dragoons. Oh
there is the devil to pay, I can tell you.
These fellows are getting their pluck
up, and are beginning to fight like the
deuce under their own leaders,—there's
that fellow, the Padre Jarauta, as they
call him, will give Uncle Sam more
trouble than Santa Anna and the whole
lot of his generals. Here to day, and
a hundred miles off to-morrow. Nothing
but horse—nothing but horse are
worth a cent against them; and we
have no horse to speak of, and what we
have, for the most part scarce worth the
forage of their horses. You dragoon fellows
and the mounted rifles can do your
work; but I would not give Jack Hays
and one company of his old rangers, for
all the volunteer horse together. Not
one man in ten can sit his horse if it
swerves, as they all do when it comes
under fire. More saddles are emptied
in every charge, by the fellows tumbling
slap out of them, than by the bullets
of the enemy. It is enough to
make a horse swear, to think of the
blundering of the government at home.
They seem to think that cavalry are
made in five minutes, and that the moment
they have stuck five or six hundred
country lawyers and village storekeepers
upon the backs of unbroken
and unbitted wagon-horses, they are at
once horse. Why, heaven save the
mark! with the exception of artillery
alone, there is no arm in the service
that needs so much training as horse.
Give me five thousand good horse, and
a battery or two of curricle guns and
mountain howitzers, and I'll engage to
keep all our communications open far
and near; and, till they do so, we shall
always be blocked up, as we are now,
and hemmed in with these scoundrels
almost in sight of our outposts.”
“You think, then that there is great
risk?”
“I must not deceive you. I do
think so. I am just on my return from
a long scout on my own hook, as they
say, through all this border country,
and a good way inland, too, for I had a
notion to find out what was going
forward where our fellows have not
been. So I struck northward from Monterey,
and held to the westward of San
Fernando, and Gigedo, and Monclova;
and then, to the northward of the last,
turned easterly so far as Espada,
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whence I was about to make my way
back to Monterey, as fast as Emperor
could carry me; for between ourselves,
I have picked up some information that
old Zachary would give one of his ears
to have now, and I have captured some
despatches also. But they must wait,
it seems, for I am no one's man now, as
I told you, and they can neither cashier
me for disobedience, nor shoot me
for deserting, that is one comfort; and,
since such is the case, why I must try
to see you and my old friend's—damn
it! I scarcely know if I ought to call
him friend—daughter out of the scrape.
Though how I am to do it, hang me if
I know. Can she ride well?”
“Better than any man in the regiment!
her hand is like a feather, her
seat as firm as a rock, and her nerve
most miraculous.”
“And her endurance; that is the
quality there is most likelihood of testing.”
“We have never made less than thirty
miles any day; and she has never
shown fatigue.”
“We may have to make sixty; and
fifty to one, shall have to leave those
mules behind us.”
“Is there so much danger?”
The country is alive with horse.
Every village is in arms, every rancho
has turned out its riders, and keen
riders they are, I assure you. Why,
between us and the fences, and all the
way towards Encinos there are not less
than a thousand men scattered about
in little bands, from six to fifty and upward.
Here we are, above the Presidio
road; and what the devil brought you
above it, I don't know; and I am sure
you don't. I fancy you must have lost
your way. You should have gone
down as low as Mier, on Camargo; or,
better yet, to Matamoras; and so taken the
chance of a train and convoy. But it
is no use talking about it now; for that
game's up.”
“Why up?”
Carrera and five hundred horse are
between us and Revilla now, partly on
the look out for your humble servant;
I had half a mind to go down, and take
a look at them, till I met you. If I
could get within three hundred yards
of the dog, I'd pay him a debt, that
Brown Bess”—he smiled grimly, and
tapped the breach of his rifle, “owes
him.”
“And is there no chance of running
the gauntlet of their parties, and getting
through clear?”
“None, under heaven! They know
that I have got these despatches, and
fancy that I shall try to fall down upon
Mier. But I am no fool. Our only
chance is the straight inland road, keeping
clear of the villages, and travelling,
hereafter, as much as we can by night.
I shall be easier, when we have got old
Bravo here between us and the hounds.”
“Are they so formidable?”
“I can hardly fancy irregular horse
more formidable. They are capitally,
though slightly mounted—well armed
with a lance fourteen feet long, with a
sharp steel head of eighteen inches;
two escopetas, or light ounce ball, carabines;
a long straight sword, a knife,
and lasso, with which they can catch
you or your horse any where they please,
both at full gallop. They ride admirably,
and fight devilish well; do you
call that formidable?”
“Rather so. I must confess.”
“Rather so? I believe you! Why
it was only yesterday morning, eight of
them stole upon me while I was eating
my breakfast under the lee of a muskeet
thicket. I shot one with my rifle
before I backed Emperor, and two with
my pistols afterward; and charged
through them sword in hand, knocking
one head over heels, and cutting another
half through the shoulder. But the
other three still stuck to me, firing their
cursed escopetas—one of them did send
a bullet through my hunting shirt and
barked my bridle arm—and as the
ground was deep and boggy, I could
not ride away from them; they chased
me all of five miles, and, curse me! if
I dared turn my head to see how far off
they were from me, for fear of seeing a
lance point within a hand's breath, of
my kidneys. Faith! I believe they
were so close as that to me once. I
could not get time to load a weapon;
I had put up my sword, to hold the
horse together better in the deep
ground, and, to tell you the truth, I did
think that my time was come, and expected
nothing but a dig with a spear
in the small of my back, or a check
with a lasso round my neck, at every
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stride of the horse. At last to my
great joy, I saw a stream before me,
the first I had seen in two days; a deep
muddy, black-looking brook, creeping
along with dark eddies between very
boggy banks. It must have been twenty
teet of water, if it was an inch.
`Here goes,' I cried aloud, `if I get
over it, curse me if they can!' So I
sat well down in the saddle, and took
Emperor hard by the head, and sent
my spurs in rowel deep! and we were
over in a minute! By good luck
though, I knew what was coming, as if
by instinct; so I whipped my knife out
in a second, and held it straight before
my face with the back touching my
nose and chin; so when the bloody
lasso came, as I knew it would, whistling
over my head and about my ears,
it took the edge of the blade, before it
took my wind-pipe, and was in two
pieces before you could say `cut.'
Then I looked round, I promise you. I
wish you'd seen the Don's face, with
his black eyes goggling, and his mouth
wide open, when he saw his lasso come
home empty. `Es el diablo mismo!'
said he. So I gave him a grin and a
yell, and began to load my rifle, as fast
as I could. So, seeing that their escopetas
were all three empty, and that
their lassos could not reach me, and
that their nags could not take the water,
why they began to think discretion the
better part of valor, and took themselves
off as quickly as they could; not so
quickly though—for their horses were
pretty well blown, and the bog deep and
treacherous—but that I got Bess loaded,
and knocked one of them out of his
saddle, for a finish. He must have
been nigh four hundred yards off, so that
I did not kill him, but he sat mighty
clumsily in his saddle when he climbed
up again. That's the last brush I had
with them, and now my pipe's out, and
it's late. Do you go and bid your men
to put no more wood on the fires, and
lie down one and all, and get all the
sleep they can. They will need it, before
we reach Monterey.”
“What, will you have no sentinel?”
“I would rather have my brown
horse, Emperor, for a sentinel, than all
the dragoons in the United States, or
out of it. Though he is lying down
and asleep now he has got one ear
pricked, and one eye open, I'll be
bound for him. Do what I bid you;
and then get to your bed yourself. I
wake you before the morning star is up,
to-morrow.”
Gordon arose, well satisfied that the
Partisan knew his business far better
than he, and went away to do his bidding,
much to the delight of the unfortunate
dragoon who was pacing up and
down with his carabine in the hollow of
his arm, envying his more lucky comrades
their sound and healthy slumbers.
This duty done, the young officer
hurried back to his tent and his fair
bride; and in doing so, passed close to
the bivouac of the Partisan.
He had wrapt himself close in
handsome blanket, with his knife drawn
in one hand, and his pistol in the other,
ready for instant defence on the least
alarm; and, with his head resting in the
hollow of his large Spanish saddle, was
already buried in deep and dreamless
sleep.
In ten minutes more there was not an eyelid open of man or animal in the
eneampment; and the broad lustrous
northern moon, sailing in a flood of
silver glory through the azure firmament,
alone watched over them, like
the unsleeping eye of an all-seeing providence.
CHAPTER IV. THE PASSAGE OF THE BRAVO.
The stars were beginning to grow
pale in heaven, and a faint grayish
tint was creeping gradually upward
from the eastern horizon, and usurping
the dark azure of the cloudless sky,
when the light sleep of the Partisan
was interrupted by the long tremulous
low whining of his favorite horse.
He started to his feet in an instant,
and listening eagerly, and again laying
his ear to the ground, as on the previous
evening, speedily became aware that a
large body of horse was passing along
the hard prairie, not far from the skirts
of the timber. Instantly awakening the
young Lieutenant and his dragoons, he
bade them strike the tent, load the
mules, and saddle the chargers with
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all possible speed and silence, keeping
their arms ready, for that danger was at
hand.
This done, he took up his trusty rifle,
and stole away with a noiseless step to
reconnoitre the party, which had now
come so near, that the clank of the
steel seabbards against the stirrup irons
was distinctly audible above the hollow
sound of the horses' tramps.
The noise, however, gradually died
away, the troopers having evidently
ridden down the outer edge of the
forest to the southward, without noticing
the track left by the horses of
our company.
Within ten minutes, Pierre returned
with a very serious countenance.
“There are above an hundred of
them,” he said, “regular lancers of
Carrera's band. They have gone
southward for the present, but we may
expect them back within an hour, for
they are evidently on the look out for
our trail, which they must have followed
from the last bottom, and lost at night
on the dry prairie; had the morning
been one hour more advanced, they
must have seen it, and we should have
been all killed, before this time; for
they make no prisoners.”
“There is no time to lose, then,”
said Gordon hastily, looking with an
anxious eye to the face of his wife, who
was already equipped and ready to
mount. “Let us get to horse at once,
and put the river between them and
us.”
“That is soon done, so far as we
men are concerned,” replied the Partisan;
“but how do you get her across
rivers, such as this? It is a broad
stream, and the current runs like a mill
race. It is enough to dazzle the eyes
and turn the head of a strong man to
swim it, let alone a lady.”
“We have an India-rubber pontoon
here,” he answered, pointing to a sort
of oval bag of that material, depending
from two air cylinders of the same stuff,
which, when inflated, and distended by
two or three short staves, formed a
rude boat, and which, when not in use,
could be folded into a small compass,
and packed on a mule's saddle. “It is
all ready, and can be drawn to the farther
bank, easily, by the cord coiled in
the bow.”
“Let her get in, then, in God's
name!” replied the Partisan; “for all
this takes time, and we have little
enough of that to spare.”
And, with the words, he led his own
horse, now fully accoutred, down to
the shore, at the spot where he had
watered the animal on the previous
evening, followed by the dragoons,
three of whom led the beasts, while one
carried the light pontoon.
Gordon brought up the rear, with his
fair delicate wife hanging upon his arm,
and smiling with serene and beautiful
confidence in the protection of her gallant
husband.
Arrived on the bank, all the dragoons
mounted and entered the broad and rapid
river, which could not at this spot
have been less than five hundred yards
in width. Three of them leading the
pack mules and the lady's jinnet, and
the fourth carrying in his hand the reel
on which was wound the tough cord of
twisted hide, by which the frail bark
was to be drawn across the whirling
current.
So strong was the stream that, although
the horses swam well and stoutly,
and although the dragoons were as
well trained to the management of their
horses in the water as on dry land, they
were carried a great distance down the
river before they were enabled to make
the opposite bank; and the cord attached
to the pontoon, long as it was, would
have proved insufficient had not the
Partisan run down the hither shore
with the light boat in his arms, thus
easing the strain, until he reached a
point opposite to the spot, where with a
fearful struggle the half-exhausted animals
succeeded in landing.
Then with a bright eye and a cheerful
smile on her lovely face, the soft
and delicate young woman entered the
frail vessel, which sunk so deeply in the
water, even under her slight burthen,
that the extreme edges only of the cylinders
which supported it were visible
above the surface of the swift glancing
waters.
“Shut your eyes, you were best, sweet
lady,” cried the rough veteran of the
woods, moved almost to tears by the
dauntless heroism of one so young, so
gentle, and so tender—for she showed
not a sign of terror in committing
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herself to a bark, which many of the hardiest
tars that ever braved the perils of a
storm-tossed ocean would have refused
to enter. “The rapid whirl of those
waters will dazzle your eyes, and if
your head fail you, there will be peril
indeed.”
“It will not fail me,” she said with a
calm smile. “My heart will keep it
steady. I am sure there is little danger;
and if there be danger I would rather at
least meet it with my eyes open, and
look upon him to the last,” and with the
word she laid her hand playfully on Gordon's
shoulder.
He caught her in his arms, and strained
her to his heart, which beat far more
wildly than her own at the thought of
the peril she ran, while a tear sparkled
for a moment in his clear grey eye.
A strange pang, which in the simplicity
of his bold honest heart, was unaccountable
to himself, shot through the
bosom of the Partisan, as he looked on
that warm and close embrace; as he
saw that exquisite form clasped palpitating
in the permitted arms of her husband.
He started at the new sensation,
out he had not the time if he had the inclination
to analyze it.
For, tearing herself away suddenly
from his arms, she seated herself in her
nautilus skiff, and cried in a merry voice,
“Now push me off, and be sure you
keep the boat steady.”
The husband's heart failed him, as
he obeyed her bidding, and paid out
the line, from another reel similar
to that held by the dragoon on the farther
shore, which hindered the little
boat from falling bodily down the
stream.
The danger was, however, greater in
appearance than in reality, for the pontoon
was so buoyant, and the weight it
bore so trifling, that it breasted the current
gallantly; and the light laugh of the
lady came pleasantly to the ears of the
husband and his comrade, as, pleased by
the easy and rapid motion she waved
her kerchief gaily, really amused and
rejoiced at what might well have terrified
hearts which should have been
stouter, and nerves of heavier mould.
The soldiers on the other shore reeled
the strong line in actively, and in the
same proportion Frank Gordon paid it
out; till after a safe and gentle naviga
tion of perhaps ten minutes, he had the
satisfaction of seeing the pontoon made
fast to the bank, and his fair bride lifted
out with assiduous though rugged courtesy,
by the stout soldiers, who had
learned to love their lieutenant's lady,
for the gentle, yet spirited endurace with
which she supported every hardship, and
the gay mirth with which she made light
of every danger.
Scarce was she landed, ere she was
seated on the back of her beautiful and
docile palfrey, which, recruited by its
night's rest and plentiful pasture, pawed
the earth, eager to be once more in motion,
and neighed clear and shrill in invitation
to its comrades.
Gordon had already ridden a yard
or two into the river, when he was attracted
by the singular aspect and expression
of the Partisan. Both horse
and man stood like statues, carved by a
master's hand to express the utmost of
anxiety and expectation.
The charger's fine limbs positively
trembled with excitement, his small thin
ears were pricked acutely forward, his
large eyes dilated, and his nostrils distorted
to the utmost, and as red as
blood.
Pierre sat erect in his saddle, gazing
with his keen dark eye into the recesses
of the forest, his left hand raised to his ear,
for he had let fall his reins on the disciplined
charger's neck, and his cocked
ritle ready in the right.
The next instant, a single Mexican
came into view, wheeling his small but
fiery horse round the thicket, which
had sheltered their encampment, at full
gallop.
His scarlet poncho streaming far behind
him in the current created by the
swiftness of his own motion through the
atmosphere, his high crowned hat glittering
with silver ornaments, his gaily fringed
and embroidered leggins, and his long
straight sword clattering against his huge
wooden stirrup, or jingling against his
great uncouth spurs, rendered him a singularly
picturesque and striking object,
amidst the wild and luxuriant scenery
of the forest, glimmering as it was in
the still dewy twilight of the early
dawn.
He was viewed, however, by eyes
which cared little for his picturesque attire,
and thought little of effects or
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
accidents—as a painter would have styled
them—which, at another time would
have filled one of them, at least, with
ecstatic admiration.
He did not at first observe the Partisan,
so motionless did he stand, backed
by a thick clump of thorny bushes which
gave no relief to his dark charger and
sad-colored garments, but gallopped
fiercely forward spurring his horse violently,
and evidently following the track
of the party which he was pursuing, and
which he probably believed to be far
more remote than it indeed was.
The rifle of the Partisan rose slowly,
and with a steady motion, to his shoulder,
and there remained as still and firm as
though it and the extended arm which
supported it, had been wrought in bronze
or iron.
Its bead bore full on the exposed breast
of the Mexican, with an eye keen and
sure as the soaring eagle's glaring along
the barrel, and a finger to which no extremity
of peril could communicate the
slightest tremor pressing the fatal trigger.
Had that trigger been drawn, no mortal
aid could have availed to save the
forfeit life; but the Partisan paused to
see whether the rider was alone or had
followers. Had a second horseman
come into sight, the flash would have followed
the sight, and sure death the ragged
bullet.
But no follower appeared, and now the
ranchero, for such he seemed to be, was
within forty yards of Pierre, when he saw
the horse, the man, the levelled rifle—
when he recognised the being he most
feared on earth, the far-famed Partisan.
Wheeling his horse in an instant, by
dint of his cruel massive bit which threw
him on his haunches, as if by magic, the
terrified wretch turned to fly in the direction
of the troopers, who had gone
down to the southward, and were not
probably even now more than a mile distant.
Satisfied by the man's flight that he
was unsupported, Pierre rapidly uncocked
his rifle and threw it to the ground,
turning as he did so to forbid Gordon—
who had unslung his carabine, and
now half suspecting treachery in his
guide, was raising it to his eye—from
firing.
“Not for your life!” he cried—“not
for your life! cross the river, and ride
due westward. I will deal with this
dog.”
And, with the word, gathering up the
reins in his left hand, he gave Emperor
the spur so suddenly that he bounded six
feet into the air, with all his feet together,
and dashed at once into his tearing gallop.
Meanwhile the rider had uncoiled the
lasso, which hung from the pummel of
his saddle, and, whirling it around his
head in the true Spanish fashion, thundered
along in pursuit of the fugitive at a
tremendous pace.
The Mexican had, it is true, some fifty
yards the start of his pursuer, and knowing
that he was riding for his life, or at
least for his liberty, plied his longrowelled
spurs with desperate energy.
The animal he rode was swift and active,
though small and low of size, being
descended probably from the old Andalusian
blood, and the best in Europe from
its greater admixture with the Moorish
strain, which was imported to this continent
by its first conquerors.
But fleet and high-spirited as it was,
it had not the least chance of contending
against the vastly superior power
and longer stride of the Anglo-American
thorough-bred.
On drove the Emperor, covering sixteen
feet at every stroke, and gaining
every second upon the trembling fugitive.
Now he was within twenty yards'
distance, when the ranchero turning in
his saddle deliberately levelled his escopeta
at the Partisan.
It would seem, however, that he had
not calculated upon his enemy's being
armed with the formidable lasso, or
upon his ability in using it; for the
instant he saw it circling in the air
around his head, and on the point of
being cast against him, his whole countenance
altered, and he trembled so violently
that it scarce seemed possible he
could retain his seat in the saddle.
In another moment his carabine
would have been discharged, and the
alarm communicated to the other troopers;
but ere he could pull the trigger,
the Partisan wheeled Emperor by a
quick movement of his hand and thigh,
and hurled the tremendous missile as
sure and almost as swift as his own unerring
bullet.
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
The noble horse, well knowing his
part in what was to ensue, stopped dead
short in his full career, the Partisan
throwing himself back in the stirrups,
and sitting as perfectly unmoved by the
shock, as if he had been a portion of the
charger he bestrode.
But that was not the only feat which
the instinct and experience of the gallant
beast had taught him; for, bracing
every muscle of his wiry and elastic
frame, he leaned so far over on the side
opposite to that whence the lasso had
been sped, that he would have fallen,
but for the violent resistance which ensued
instantly.
Aimed by an eagle eye, and launched
by a master hand, the terrible noose encircled
both the forelegs of the Mexican
horse as he sprang forward, was drawn
taut on the instant by the very speed of
the trammelled captive, and hurled
horse and rider headlong to the earth,
with a violence which left both for an
instant senseless.
The tremendous force of such a
check can better be conceived than described;
but it was so great that in
spite of the superior weight and bone
of the Emperor, it would probably have
cast him also to the ground, but for
the position in which he received the
shock; and, as it was, he was dragged
several yards, his hoofs literally ploughing
up the forest soil in deep furrows before
he could recover perfect control of
his limbs.
The next moment Pierre had leaped
from his saddle and sprang upon his
captive, almost before he opened his
eyes on recovering from his terrible fall.
Ere he had regained his senses, he
was disarmed, and his arms pinioned so
far behind him, that although he could
use his hands and forearms from the elbow,
he could not raise them to his
head, or make any attempt either to
strike or parry.
His horse was next released from the
lasso, and allowed to recover its feet,
which it did trembling with terror, and
sweating at every pore, but not nearly
so much shaken or bruised by so violent
a fall as might have been expected,
owing probably to the softness of
the ground.
The noose of the lasso was now
transferred to the neck of the unhappy
Mexican, whose swarthy features had
changed to a sort of greenish-yellow
hue, standing as he did in imminent
terror of instant death by strangulation,
of which indeed he appeared to be in
no small risk.
“Life!” he cried, piteously in Spanish,
“life! for the love of God, and the
most holy Virgin! For charity! give
me my life, Senor American!”
“Mount your horse, fool!” replied
the Partisan, sternly, “who the devil
do you think would trouble himself to
take such a miserable life as yours.—
Mount your horse, I say, and cease
your howling, or I will send my knife
through your coward heart!”
He also used the Spanish tongue,
which he spoke not only idiomatically,
but with all the ease and fluency of a
native; and to enforce his threats, he
laid his hand with a grim smile on the
hilt of his formidable wood knife.
Admonished thus, the man climbed
awkwardly to his saddle, and when
once there was secured in his seat by
Pierre, who, cutting the lasso from the
Mexican's saddle, fastened his feet with
it under his horse's belly, though not so
tightly as to deprive him of the necessary
command of the animal.
This done, he released his arms, and
bidding him in a stern, quiet voice follow
him close and silently, if he did not
desire to be strangled, he leaped lightly
into his own saddle, and cantered back
toward the river followed by his captive,
who took admirable care to keep
so nigh to his conqueror that the strain
of the harsh cord about his neck should
not be drawn any tighter.
In the meantime, Lieutenant Gordon,
who had at first watched the chase
with some apprehension, and very great
anxiety lest the fugitive should escape,
had no sooner seen the lasso hurled,
and the downfall of man and horse,
than, perfectly content to trust all to
the skill and judgment of a man who
had exhibited such readiness of thought
and action, he addressed himself to obey
his directions; and putting his horse
steadily down the bank into the river,
swam it gallantly, holding his pistols
above his head in his right hand, in order
to keep the powder dry in case of
future emergency.
Before he was half way across, the
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
Partisan came up at a brisk hard canter,
with his trembling prisoner in tow,
whose sword, pistols, and escopeta he
threw into the river, and then taking
his own pistols from the holsters, and
holding them aloft like Gordon, plunged
in himself and swam stoutly over, dragging
the unfortunate ranchero in mortal
terror after him.
“Whom, in the name of everything
that is wonderful!” cried Julia, half
laughing at the wo-begone expression
and blanched features of the Mexican,
half erying from the excitement he had
undergone. “Whom have you got
there, Partisan, and what are you going
to do with him?”
“A Mexican spy, lady,” replied the
frontiersman, as coolly as if he had not
ridden faster than a foot's pace for the
last hour. “And I am going to cut his
ears off, if he tells me the least bit of a
lie; and to hang him up by the heels
for the vultures and carrion crows to
eat, if he makes the least offer to escape.”
Which pleasant intentions he forthwith
rendered clearly compreheusible
to the prisoner, who had previously
given some signs of appreciating his
meaning, which he gathered from the
gestures of the speaker, by translating
his last words into very choice Spanish,
for his especial benefit.
Thereupon followed Misericordias!
and Santissima Virgins! and nombre de
Dios! beyond all powers of mortal computation:
the poor devil working himself
into a perfeet paroxysm of terror,
until at length, compassionating his miserable
apprehensions and his tears—
for he aotually wept as he implored his
life from the pitiless man, as he supposed,
into whose hands he had fallen—
Julia relieved him, by assuring him, in
pure Castillian, which fell deliciously
soft and musical from her gentle lips,
that his life was in no danger, since
Americans never slew their prisoners,
especially in the presence of their ladies;
and that even his ears should be
spared, provided he told them the truth,
and made no effort to escape before
they should reach their friends. In
which event, she added, he should not
only be restored to liberty, but reward.
ed.
His thanks were profuse, and his pro
mises unbounded: thanks and promises,
both of which Pierre cut short by a grim
glance and a twitch of the halter, which
still encircled his neck; after which
summary process, for the enforcement
of silence, he said, with a courteous gesture
to the lady—“Now, then, if you
please, we will be moving. We are well
across the river; and if we put this belt
of wood between ourselves and the enemy,
they may not find our track, and so
may miss us altogether.”
CHAPTER V. THE DOUBLE TRAITOR.
There was no need of discussion or
debate, so evidently correct was the
plan of the Partisan; nor, had his views
been much more questionable than they
were, is it at all probable that any opposition
would have been made, so completely
had he gained the confidence of
the whole party, by his promptitude, his
gallantry, and his extraordinary coolness
in danger.
The heads of all the horses, therefore,
were turned westward, and away they
rode at as rapid a rate as the nature of
the ground—which was in places very
deep and swampy, and at others very
much encumbered with brakes of thorny
underwood—permitted.
In the present order of the march, the
most danger being anticipated from the
rear, the oldest and most intelligent of
the dragoons was detached to a hundred
yards in front, followed by the three
others; two leading the pack mules, and
the third having charge of the prisoner,
about whose neck one end of the lasso
was still secured, while the other was
made fast to the pummel of the soldier's
saddle. This man rode with his carabine
unslung, the butt resting on his
right thigh, cocked, and in readiness for
instant service, his orders being peremptory,
to shoot the prisoner through
the head on his giving the slightest indication
of any desire to escape, or to
raise an alarm.
After these, Gordon and his fair bride
rode together, conversing at times in a
low voice, but yet oftener keeping silence,
so much were the hearts of both
oppressed by the singular difficulty, if
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
not peril, of their situation. Indeed, it
is probable that, had not each desired to
deceive the other as to their state of
mental disquietude, neither would have
spoken at all; but the husband, anxious
to support the spirits, and if possible alleviate
the apprehensions of the fair being
whom he almost reproached himself
for having brought thus into the howling
wilderness, exerted himself to the utmost
to appear confident and even cheerful;
while the lady, no less solicitous to
conceal what natural tremors her sex
could not cast entirely aside, displayed
the most wonderful self-possession, added
to the liveliest flow of spirits, and the
highest courage that ever graced a fair
and gentle woman.
In the rear of all rode the Partisan,
alone, at nearly a hundred yards' distance
from the little group which preceded
him; and he alone of the whole
party seemed perfect!y cool and unconcerned,
although, in truth, there was
not one among them who so fully envisaged
the circumstances of their position,
and saw so clearly the whole extent
of their danger.
Had he been alone, he would have
undertaken the whole risk, without hope
either of fame or guerdon, for the mere
fun of out witting and circumventing the
Mexican troopers; but, encumbered in
his movements by the disciplined regulars—
for whom, like all frontiersmen,
he entertained a profound contempt—
and impeded by the presence of a delicate
and tender female, he almost despaired
of making good his way through
the wilderness to head-quarters.
As they galloped onward, however,
through the belt of timber which bordered
the western as well as the eastern
marge of the Bravo del Norte, time
slipped away, and brought no sounds of
pursuit from the rear. An hour had
passed since they crossed the river, and
the forest, breaking away into scattered
clumps and single trees, suffered the
eye to roam, at intervals, beyond its
tufted thickets and green alleys, over
the broad expanse of the boundless prairie,
which lay outstretched for countless
miles before them, now laughing gaily
in the fresh morning sunshine.
Just as they were approaching so
nearly to the margin of the open ground,
that the dragoon, who acted as vidette,
was looking round for orders, Pierre uttered
a shrill, long-drawn whistle, which
was the preconcerted signal for a halt;
and, after the rest of the party had pull
ed up their horses, galloped forward
himself till he reached the extreme
verge of the covert, where, without
speaking a single word, he dismounted,
fastened his charger to a tree, and advanced
stealthily into the open prairie.
After being absent about twenty minutes,
during which the remainder of
his party had lost sight of him altogether,
he returned with a thoughtful expression
on his strongly-marked features,
and walked through the little
group of dragoons and pack mules, passing
within a yard of the prisoner, until
he reached Gordon and his fair bride,
who sat on their panting horses, eagerly
awaiting his approach.
“Have you heard anything,” he asked,
quietly, “from the forest in our
rear?”
“Not a sound,” replied the young
officer, “not so much even as the chirrup
of a bird, or the rustle of a deer
among the leaves.”
“Ah! you have not a woodsman's
ear,” answered the Partisan, who had
been listening eagerly even while he was
speaking. “There are deer, if not
elk, within four hundred yards of us
now, and they are in confusion, too;
but as we are to windward of them,
and there is a brisk breeze from the
northward, it may be they have caught
our taint upon the air. If not, those accursed
lancers have doubled on their
track, and crossed the river on us.”
With these words, he knelt as he had
done on the previous night, and again
laying his ear to the ground, listened,
holding his breath the while, to the faint
sounds which had reached his ears
alone.
In a minute he arose with a countenance
less perturbed than before, and
said, nodding his head in approbation:
“Ay, so far all is well; they have
gone southward. It is we who alarmed
them, and that course is clear for the
present. Now listen to me, lieutenant,
and give me your advice, for if I know
better than you how to keep our line of
route, and avoid the enemy, you know
the best how much this dear lady can
endure.”
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“Speak out, Partisan,” answered the
young husband. “I will deal frankly
with you, and I pray you to do so with
us.”
“I shall,” answered Pierre, hastily.
“Mark me. There is not a human
being in sight on the prairie, and I have
swept it, I am sure, twelve times in
every direction Those fellows who
started us this morning, are, I think, so
far in our rear, that unless by a miracle
they turn and fall upon our trail, they
will hardly trouble us.”
“Then why not ride straight forward
on our course, and so put a yet larger
space between us.”
“I said that there was no human being
in sight, but there are three smokes,
one hereaway, some six miles to the
southward; but I do not care much for
that, seeing that it is out of our line altogether,
and that it seems to me it is
from an old night fire that has burned
low. Then there is one more right
ahead of us, directly in our course. It
was burning strong, too, with new wood,
by the thickness of the wreaths. It is
some four miles off, but I could see
neither men nor horses, for the fire is
kindled behind a roll of the prairie.—
But there they are cooking their tortillas,
sure enough. Again, there is a
great smoke as of many fires altogether,
away here, more than ten miles off, I
think, to the northward. So that you
see we are in a net, as it were,
among their outlying parties. The
great smoke to the north, is, I fancy,
the camp or headquarters, or what you
will, of Carrera's horse. Those lancers
that came so near us in our bivouac,
are one of their reconnoitring
parties; and these two smokes are two
more. They are all on the look-out for
me. The scoundrels, from the fire that
has burned low, must have breakfasted
already, and ridden northward to join
the squad on the other side the river, by
the fords above Laredo—we had seen
them else. Now as none of these have
seen us, or fallen on our trail, it is likely
they will make a sweep southwards
toward the Nueces, and so we may
reckon on seeing no more of them.”
“You calculate chances closely,”
said Gordon, who had listened with
equal surprise and admiration to the intricate
deductions drawn by the Parti
san from indications which appeared to
him so trivial.
“I must calculate closely to save you
from lance and lasso. Carrera takes
no prisoners!” answered Pierre, coolly.
“Now there are three plans of which
we must choose one, and then act on it
for life or death. We must work twenty
miles due north up this forest land,
and so get above all their posts—which
were the safest plan of all, if it would
not carry us so far out of our route, and
bring us far too soon into the settled
country, quite out of the line of our communications;—
or we must strike due
southward for that extinguished fire,
and so strive to make our way down to
our posts at Mier and Camargo, which
would do well enough did not the whole of
that country swarm with guerilleros;-or,
again, we must drive right onward, and
take the chance of falling on the party at
the little fire unawares, and finding them
so few that we can master them. If we
succeed in doing so, we have the best
chance so of reaching Monterey in safety.
For, once through these frontier
parties, we shall, it is likely, find the
country clear until we reach our outposts.”
“The risk of the three, then, is nearly
equal,” said Gordon, musing deeply.
“The immediate risk of the last is
the greatest; the ultimate risk the least!
but in truth it is a chance anyhow.”
“Which would you choose were you
alone?”
“I would lie by till, night, and then
pass the centre picket. But we cannot
do so. We are too strong in numbers to
lie perdu.”
“Which do you recommend?”
“If your sweet lady have nerve to
look on bloodshed, and, if need be, to
ride for her life afterward—the third.”
“Then the third be it,” replied Julia,
cheerfully. “I take the choice upon
myself. I am a soldier's daughter, and
the wife of a soldier, and nerve I must
have, and will.”
“Brave heart!” muttered the Partisan,
gazing on her admiringly. “Brave
heart! you shall be saved.”
Then he advanced again upon the
prairie, gazed forth a second time, and,
finding that everything he saw went to
confirm his first impression, returned to
the dragoons, and ordered them quietly
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
to dismount and breakfast on whatever
cooked provisions they had with them,
neither lighting any fire nor unsaddling
their chargers. This done, he rejoined
Gordon and his bride, and, sitting down
with them upon the mossy greensward,
in the middle of the horses, produced his
slender store, and exhorted them to eat,
and ate himself, as tranquilly conversing
all the while about indifferent matters, as
if there had been no danger within fifty
miles of them.
Courage and coolness, like cowardice,
are infectious; and Gordon, who, as a
brave man and a soldier, feared nothing
for himself, whatever he might do for the
fair partner of his perils, soon caught
the contagion of the Partisan's manner;
and Julia, by nature, gay and mirthful,
soon forgot all but the present moment.
In short, that morning meal snatched in
the midst of warlike preparation, and almost
within arm's length of mereiless,
unsparing enemies, was enjoyed with a
zest such as is given only by novelty
and excitement.
Many minutes had not passed, however,
before Pierre arose from his seat,
bidding his young companions eat heartily,
for it was hard to say when they
might have the time to eat again—announced
that he was going to cross examine
the prisoner, and walked coolly
away toward the group of dragoons.
Not one of these men understood a
word of Spanish, and Gordon and his
wife were too far off to distinguish anything
that was said. It was clear, however,
by the gesticulation of the Partisan,
by the frequent laying of his right
hand on the hilt of his knife, and by the
motion of his left toward the different
fires which he had enumerated, that
he was questioning him, not without
threats of instant death, as to the numbers
and position of the enemy.
It was not long before he came back
to Gordon, and desiring him to help the
lady to mount, replaced his slender bag
gage on the back of the good horse
Emperor, and then without setting a
foot in the stirrup, laid his hand lightly
on the pummel and vaulted into the
saddle.
Still he paused before giving the
word to advance, and looked hesitatingly
toward Julia, who sat mouthing her
thorough-bred palfry lightly with the
curb, perfectly self-possessed, and easy
in her manner and expression.
“If I could only trust that dog,” he
said at length. “But as they say quien
sabe? He tells me that, as I suspect,
Carrera is up yonder with thirteen hundred
horse. That there are two hundred
in the squad we saw this morning.
That fifty bivouacked down yonder to
the south, and are gone off to join the
rest; and that the party right ahead is
but a night scout, of six men, under
orders to lie by all day, and patrole the
ground, between the posts, by night—
If it be so, and we can get upon them
unperceived, it will be easy work; but
not a man or a horse must escape. So
bid your dragoons, when they fire, aim
at the cattle altogether, and, when they
charge, ride down the horses, or hamstring
them with their swords.”
“Do you believe him?” enquired
Gordon anxiously. “He may be leading
us into an ambuscade.”
“Hardly, I think,” replied the Partisan.
“In the first place, he knows
me, and I have promised him sure
death if there be one man more than he
has named, and two ounces at night if
we get clear through them. The fellow
is in mortal terror, for I never pass
by him but he starts, as though he felt
my knife in his gizzard. But come, we
have no time to lose, let us be moving.”
And, without waiting for any further
orders they did move, and, leaving the
friendly covert of the forest, rode out into
the open prairie, which stretched away
into ridgy waves, like an unbroken sea,
for leagues and leagues on every side of
them. Not a tree or bush diversified
the interminable range, or afforded a
spot on which the eye could rest, or by
which it could measure distance. Everywhere,
the long deep-green grass—
for the land on that side of the Bravo is
moister and less sterile—waved and
twinkled, as it rose and fell, before the
fresh breath of the northern breeze,
gemmed with ten thousand flowers of
every various hue.
Far to the northward lay the smokes,
not now a single column, but a long
line of separate jets streaming away
before the wind toward our company,
which indicated the position of the main
force of Carrera.
These, as he now surveyed them from
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his horse's back, Pierre pronounced to
be more distant than he had deemed at
first; asserting that full fifteen miles
were interposed between themselves and
the enemy, in that quarter. To the
southward the fire which he had discovered
had burned quite out, and no trace
of it was to be discovered; this fact
confirming the report of the prisoner,
and his own preconceived opinion.
Before them, however, nearer and
more distinct at every stride of their
horses, rose that round which, if the
Mexican spoke truly, the party to be
met with and disposed of slept unconscious.
Mile after mile vanished beneath the
feet of their horses, as they pressed onward
steadily and swiftly; Pierre once
again in the van, leading them on, rifle
unslung and ready, at Emperor's fast
slashing trot.
Now they were within a mile or less
of the ridgy brow, steeper and more
abrupt than any which they had yet
passed, from the other side of which the
smoke rose in gray volumes, having
been fed with recent fuel. Here, then,
Pierre halted, and caused the pack
mules to be securely tethered to stakes
driven deep into the moist earth of the
prairie bottom, together with the horse
of the Mexican.
The prisoner—after being once more
interrogated, and persisting in his tale
that there were but six men; that there
was a large stream at the base of the descent;
and that the fire was on this side of
the stream—was dismounted, gagged,
bound hand and foot, and laid on his
back upon the grass.
This done, Gordon arranged his handful
of men, himself leading on the right,
while Pierre rode forward some six
horse-lengths in advance, and Julia,
who had refused positively to remain
behind with the pack mules, followed a
length or two behind. All that she
could be prevailed upon to cede was
that she would halt on this side the
brow of the hill, when the charge was
to be made which was to decide their
fate. No man could be spared from
their little force to guard her, therefore,
reluctantly they were compelled to
yield to her will.
Thus they advanced, now at a foot's
pace, picking their ground where the
soil was softest and the prairie grass
longest, that so the sound of their horses'
feet might be deadened—with their reins
well in hand, their broadswords loosened
in their scabbards, and their forefingers
on the triggers of their carbines.
Now they were within twenty paces
of the extreme brow of the ridge, which
alone separated them from their enemy—
three paces more would have brought
their heads into relief against the sky
above the summit of the hill, and discovered
them to the sentinel, if there
were one, on duty.
At this moment Pierre pulled his
horse short up, dismounted silently, and
with a gesture to the well-trained and
gallant animal, which it was evident he
understood—for he stood stock still on the
instant, with ear erect, expanded nostril,
straining eye, quivering in every limb,
with fiery eagerness—cast himself down,
rifle in hand, among the shorter herbage,
which clothed the steep ascent.
Up this he wormed his way, like a
snake painfully and slowly, keeping
his head so low, and his body compressed
so closely to the ground, that at a hundred
yards' distance he was entirely
concealed from the keenest eyesight.
Words cannot describe the agony or
excitement, which made the hearts
of the brave hardy men—much more of
the lovely woman—who looked on,
mute and inactive spectators of that first
attack, throb in their bosoms, and swell
upward to their very throats with a fast
sickening motion.
He gained the verge, and stretched
his neck forth for an instant to look over
it. But in the same point of time, he
couched yet more closely to the earth;
and they might see his right hand cautiously
draw the trailed rifle forward.
Again his head was thrust forward—
he rose half to his knee, and raised the
heavy yager, as if it had been a feather,
to his shoulder. It was not a second
that the piece remained motionless, before
its contents, were sent forth, with a
bright glaring stream, and a quick sharp
crack, from the muzzle; but it seemed
to all the spectators as if minutes had
elapsed, between the levelling and the
discharge of the weapon.
No sound followed that crack—no
groan—no cry of anguish—it was indeed
a death-shot!—until the heavy
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trampling of the dragoon horses thundered
on the ears of the astonished Mexicans,
aroused from their secure slumbers
to desperate and fruitless combat.
Swiftly, however, as the dragoons
passed up the hill, more swiftly yet did
the well-trained charger of the Partisan
dash, instantly as he beheld the rifle's
flash, into his fleetest gallop. One second
brought him to his master's side,
another second set that master in the
saddle, and ere a third elapsed, he had
crossed the brow of the ridge in advance
of the dragoons, and, with his long
straight broadsword flashing above his
head, was sweeping unsupported, as it
seemed, down on the enemy.
There were as the prisoner had stated,
six men only; two of whom were
awake, the one a sentinel stalking to
and fro with his escopeta in his hand,
the other a non-commissioned officer,
who sat smoking his cigarillo by the
fire, over which a camp kettle filled
with some savory mess was simmering
The death-shot, which sped its bullet
crashing through the brain of the
hapless sentinel, aroused them all, and
brought them to their feet, amazed and
terrified, and unprepared for action.
All stood astounded and breathless—all
save the sergeant, who, being apparently
a quick-witted veteran soldier, as he
was evidently a powerful and vigorous
man, rushed to the horses so soon as he
heard the sound of the coming charge,
untethered his own charger, sprang to
its back, and forced it through a deep
and miry ford of the rivulet, even before
his men had got hold of their weapons
much less thought of their horses.
Meantime, the dragoons crossed the
ridge and poured down all abreast, receiving
as they came, a straggling volley
from the escopetas of the lancers,
who, seeing that flight was hopeless,
stood to their arms like men, and made
a desperate defence. Not a single ball
took effect, however; for so fierce and
rapid was the charge of the dragoons,
down the abrupt hill-side, that the dismounted
Mexicans over-shot them, and
were in their turn all sabred or shot
down, before they had time to draw a
sword, much less to re-load their firelocks.
While this was passing, however, the
Partisan—who saw at a glance what must
be the fate of those opposed to the charge
of Gordon's troopers, and that the only
thing to be apprehended was the escape
of the sergeant—drove Emperor at full
speed down the hill, to the right hand of
the fire, and rode him straight at the
yawning chasm of the rivulet.
Not for a second did the bold beast
pause or hesitate, but, with his long
thin mane and full tail floating out in
the strong breeze, with wide-opened
eye and blood-red nostril, swept over it
with one grand stroke, landed firm as a
rock on the farther margin, and drove
on without altering his pace, or swerving
from his direct line.
Then came a desperate race, for life
or death, across the firm dry prairie,
which echoed under the thundering
horse-tramps firm, solid, and elastic.
The Mexican had perhaps gained a
start of some fifty yards before his foe
was across the brook, and his small but
high-bred horse, being the fresher of the
two, held his own for a little way, and
even widened the gap at first, between
himself and his pursuer. Erelong,
however, the tremendous stride and
power of the Anglo American thorough-bred
horse began to tell; and, at every
stroke, the Partisan closed on him. Nor
was the other slow to perceive the disadvantage.
He stood up in his stirrups,
looked quietly behind him, and,
seeing that none of the dragoons had
passed the brook, but had dismounted
and were now grouped about the fire,
deliberately pulled his horse up, and,
unslinging his escopeta, took a deliberate
aim at Pierre Delacroix.
He fired. The ball whizzed through
the air, so close to the head of the Partisan,
that it severed one of his long, dark
locks; but it passed onward harmless.
Then, seeing the failure of his missile,
the Mexican couched his long lance,
and rode at the frontiersman with a savage
yell.
Silently Pierre charged right upon
him; but, when he was within half a
horse's length of the spear's point, he
wheeled sudden to the left, and, as the
Mexican was borne past him, delivered
a straight lounge, en carte, which emptied
his saddle in an instant, and left him
but a minute's life to wrestle out on the
greensward.
But the Partisan had no time to give
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to mercy, or to bestow on the dying man.
It was necessary to secure his charger,
lost it should bear the tidings of defeat to
his countrymen; and, when that was
done, and he repassed the spot where the
man had fallen, the last strife was over,
and the features—all grim and ghastly,
and set fast in death—told that all mortal
aid was bootless.
Loud went the shout, up to the skies,
from the little squad of regulars, as they
beheld the issue—though they expected
nothing else—of that single combat; and
warm and grateful were the greetings of
Arthur Gordon, as he rode out alone to
meet him in whom all their hopes were
centered.
That short but bloody conflict ended,
there was nought to detain them any
longer there. The lady was led forward
in a direction which kept her clear of
the fallen corpses, and the bloody ground
on which they lay; while the dragoons
brought up the prisoner and the mules
from the rear.
Meanwhile, the Partisan directed the
horses of the slaughtered Mexicans to be
securely tethered, since they were useless
to their captors, and supplied with
abundant forage, easily gathered from
the rich bottom. This executed, he
caused the bodies of the slain to be composed,
as if they were asleep around the
watchfire, with their arms stacked beside
them. He heaped fresh fuel on the
blaze, enough to last for several hours;
and then, looking over the ground carefully
before he mounted, was satisfied
that, even if the Mexican horse should
pass within a short distance, they would
suspect nothing wrong, unless accident
should lead them to a close inspection of
the post.
Then he rode away to join Gordon
and the lady; but, ere he did so, he met
the prisoner in charge of the two soldiers
who had brought up the mules, and the
fellow, looking at him half askance,
asked him in Spanish, with a sullen and
almost savage intonation, whether he had
not told him truly.
Pierre replied only by two words—
“Very truly.” But he noted the accent
and half sneering smile; and the first
words he spoke as he joined the lieutenant,
were—“D—n that scoundrel! I
have half a mind to reward him with one
ounce of lead instead of two of gold.”
“That were scarce worthy of you,
Partisan,” said Gordon, “and scarce
worth the time. What harm can one
poor devil like that do to six stout, well-armed
fellows, such as we?”
“I do not know,” answered Pierre—
“I do not know; but right sure I am,
that he is a double traitor.”
CHAPTER VI. THE NIGHT ALALM.
All day they rode across the open
plains, presenting still the same invariable
aspect of rich green prairie land,
for the most part nearly level, but now
very rich and fertile, and becoming
more and more, with every mile our
party traversed. Many bright rivulets
and sparkling brooks they crossed, each
winding through its deep verdant swale,
fringed with luxuriant underwood, and
overhung with fine timber trees, all
overrun with woodbines and creepers
still covered with the densest foliage,
and many of them in full bloom, notwithstanding
the advanced season of the
year. One or two larger bodies of running
water, all tributaries of the Bravo,
crossed their path; but all, save one
which again put the light pontoon in requisition,
were passed at fords, through
which the lady rode without inconvenience,
and to which the Partitan conducted
them with the unerring instinct
of the North American frontiersman.
The park-like meadows over which
they rode, began, toward noon—by
which hour they had travelled nearly
thirty miles from their halting-place of
the previous night—to be interpersed
with open groves of fine trees, with
islands, as they are called, of musprit
bushes, mingled with bays, wild peaches
and wild myrtles, and here and there
with dense thorny thickets of the formdable
chapparal, or prickly pear.
Whenever the ground was open however,
it was covered with flowers of ten
thousand gorgeous hues, many of them
surpassing, both for perfume and beauty,
the most lovely of our garden favorites.
The thickets and groves were alive
with parroquets and other bright-winged
birds. Large flocks of quail, composed
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of many broods or bevies associated,
sprang up before the feet of the horses,
and skimmed away on rapid wings toward
the nearest coverts; and, several
times, small herds of deer, or the yet
more graceful antelope, were seen
bounding across the ridge of some low
eminence, and pausing for a moment to
snuff the tainted breeze, and gaze at the
intruders on their solitude.
The air was pure and clear, as that
of a brisk October morning, but as
warm withal and as balmy as a summer's
day. The sky, overspread with
a slight filmy gauze-like haze, showed
like a vault of lapis lazuli half seen
through a lace curtain, while the great
sun, shorn of his else intolerable heat
and lustre, suffered his glories to be
contemplated with an undazzled eye.
No alarm had interrupted their progress—
not a sign of man or beast had
been observed, since their surprise of
the Mexican outpost. Pierre had announced
that he considered all danger
of pursuit, from any of the parties which
they had seen in the morning, to be at
an end; and had added further, that
they were already so far in the rear of
Carrera's force, and his line of operations,
that for the present he regarded
themselves in almost absolute safety.
Undisturbed, therefore, by any present
apprehension, exhilarated by that
most exciting of all movements, the
swift gallop of a thorough-bred over a
velvet lawn, amused by the quaint
speech and singular character of
Pierre, and emboldened by the companionship
of her young husband, Julia
had forgot all the hardships and perils she
had gone through, all that she must yet
encounter before she could even hope
to reach a place of safety; and gave
herself up altogether to the enjoyment
of the lovely scenery, the delicious climate,
and the exciting speed at which
they rode; and declared that she had
never been on a party of pleasure one
half so delightful.
At noon, they halted for three hours
under the shelter of a clump of magnificent
oaks over-canopying a little pool,
the well-head of as clear a streamlet as
ever was the haunt of Grecian woodnymph.
The sylvan meal was spread
with all the simple luxuries of a frontiersman's
fare; and when the viands
were consumed, the leathern bottle of
the Partisan, not quite exhausted by the
assaults of the previous evening, was
again called into play, and the Indian
pipes were lighted, and an hour was
whiled away—none ever more agreeably—
with many a legend of the chase,
the foray, and the fight; many a tale
of wild adventure, or rude chivalry, as
stirring to the soul as the high feats recorded
in the old French of Froissart, or
Comines.
And to the legends of the wilderness,
and the true tales of border chivalry,
were mingled poetry and song; for Julia,
frank and unaffected as woman,
true woman ever should be, raised her
sweet voice at Frank Gordon's first request,
in a rich simple melody of ancient
days, and called an echo from the astonished
genii of the oaks, who listened for
the first time, then, to the thrilling sounds
of pure English poetry, chaunted in a rich
full soprano voice, by one who sang not
with her lips alone but with her heart;
and lived as it were, in the spirit of her
strain.
Pierre listened while she sang, with
his eyes fixed upon the green-sward a
his feet, and the lids drooping over them
so far that nothing of their expression
could be discerned; but the muscles
about his mouth worked and quivered
convulsively, and as the last soft cadence
died away, and the song was ended, he
looked up into the lovely lady's face, and
wistfully, wiping a tear from either eye,
with the back of his hard brown hand—
“You have made me do a thing, lady,
I have not done for many a year; nor
ever thought to do again. You have
made me weep—I don't know what it
means—for there was nothing in your
words pitiful or affecting, nor were the
tones of your voice melancholy. Nor,
indeed, do I feel sad, but on the contrary
very happy—happier than I have felt
for many a day. Yet I weep. I don't
know what it means. I should think
there was magic in it, did I not know
that all such ideas are mere folly. I
never felt so in my life before; and,
though it is a sweet as well as a strange
feeling, I hope never to feel so any more.
It cannot be good for a man to feel so—
it enervates, it unmans him.”
He paused, still gazing in her beautiful
innocent face, and then seeing a
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bright sunny smile, yet like an April
sunbeam half tearful in its brightness,
steal over her face, he said almost sadly—
“Ah! you laugh at me, lady, you
laugh at me; and you do so rightly.
When an old woodland bear, such as I,
begins to talk about he knows not what,
he ought to be laughed at. Nay! nay!
don't answer me; but lay you down,
rather, on that dry mossy grass, and
try to sleep awhile; you have had fatigue
enough this morning to weary a
veteran soldier, and excitement enough
to exhaust a Turenne or a Conde. Try
to sleep for an hour or so, while I go
and take a round on the prairie. I see
a flock of buzzards yonder, whose motions
I don't exactly understand, and I
would have a nearer look at them.
We will not get to horse again for two
hours, but then we shall have to ride
late. Gordon, if you take my advice,
you will try a siesta too; and you, my
lads, sleep if you can, without a sentry.
There is no danger hereabout. Only
make that fellow secure, that he may
not give us the slip.”
And with the word, he took up his
rifle, tried it with the ramrod to see
that the ball had not fallen out, from the
speed at which he had ridden, as the
gun hung muzzle downward at his
back; renewed the copper caps, loosened
his woodknife in its sheath, and
walked off unaccompanied towards the
spot in the plain above which a flight of
the black vultures, commonly known
as Turkey Buzzards, were hovering
and swooping, at a distance so great that
they looked no larger than flies, and
that no ordinary eye could have distinguished
what they were.
As he moved away slowly, Julia's
eyes followed his departing figure, and
her face wore a very thoughtful expression
as she turned round to her husband.
“There goes an extraordinary man,”
she said, with an expression of deep
feeling. “A very singular, and very
noble character. I never have seen and
very seldom read of anything like him.”
“By heaven! I believe he is in love
with you, Julia,” replied Frank Gordon,
half laughing, halfin earnest. “I have
thought so all the morning.”
“I trust not,” replied the young wo
man. “I trust not, indeed, that would
be too great a misfortune.”
There was no tremor in her manner,
nor the slightest blush on her delicate
and lovely face. But Gordon observed
that she did not contradict his words,
or express an opinion of her own.
“How a misfortune, Julia?” he asked,
after a moment's pause; and though
his tone was light and bantering as he
spoke, his young wife observed, or fancied
she observed something peculiar in
his manner. “What do you mean?
I thought you pretty ladies ever esteemed
it a great honor to have men in
love with you, even when you do not
care for them, and did your utmost to
make them so.”
“You speak strangely, Frank,” she
answered with a slight sad smile.—
“Whatever heartless women may do,
sure am I, that you never saw anything
that could indicate such thoughts in me.
I said it would be a great misfortune,
because it requires no very acute eye
to see that such a man as that, if he once
loved, must needs love for ever; and
as I have no love to return, it would be
very sad and lamentable. For I can
dream of nothing in the whole range
of agony and anguish so terrible as unreturned
and hopeless love; and when a
man, with such a character, such energies
and such a soul as that loves, knowing
that he loves hopelessly, it must be
as an earthquake in his soul for ever.”
“Julia, I never heard you speak so
warmly or so strongly in all my life
before, what does this mean? what influence,
what fascination has this man
exercised over your mind, which is in
general so quiet and self-balanced?”
“The influence and fascination of
superior genius. I never met any one
the least like him.”
“Genius! genius in that rude woodsman—
that man hunter and rover of the
wilderness! Genius! are you mad Julia?”
“No, Frank dear,” she replied with
a merry little arch smile—“but you are
a little jealous, which is very silly.”
“Jealous! jealous of that leather
shirted rough rider! I should as soon
think of being jealous of sergeant Maitland
yonder, who is the better-looking
fellow of the two by odds.”
“Better looking!” cried Julia
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
disdainfully. “It seems to me that men
are ever thinking about looks—as if women
cared a pin how a man looks, provided
he looks like a gentleman, without
looking like a fool! and for Pierre
Delacroix, take my word for it, if ever
he loves a woman whose heart is disengaged,
he will prove as dangerous a
rival, as any man, how handsome or
how wise soever need desire.”
“You speak enthusiastically, madam.”
“Madam!” exclaimed the fair girl,
mournfully, “madam! and is this to
me, Frank? to your own Julia? to me,
who has followed you through perils,
and into places, no woman ever ventured
to essay for the love of man before?
oh! Frank, Frank Gordon, is not this
ungenerous?”
“I do not know,” he replied, still under
the influence of some lurking discomposure.
“I do not know. But I
know this, that I wish you would not
give way to such romantic nonsense.”
“I am sorry, that I have offended you,
Frank,” she replied, the big tears gushing
to her soft blue eyes, as she spoke.
“But more sorry yet that you so little
understand me. But I am tired with
my ride, and will try to sleep. Do so,
dear Frank, likewise; you are disturbed,
I think, and your blood is heated
by all this turmoil and excitement.”
“Sleep Julia, if you can. I am too
ill at ease to sleep,” answered her husband
moodily.
“Ill at ease—are you indeed, ill at
ease, dear Frank?” and as she spoke,
she drew herself closer to his side, and
threw one of her arms across his shoulder,
“and have I vexed you, oh! forgive
me, Frank. I did not mean to tease
you.”
“No! no! 'Tis I who am a fool, Julia,”
he replied, all his good humor returning,
and he kissed her fair forehead
as he spoke. I am a fool, and you are
all that is good and sweet. But I cannot
bear, dearest, to hear you speak so
warmly of any other man.”
“Silly, silly, Frank!” she answered
slapping his hand playfully with her
small white fingers. “Do not you
know, that they say jealous husbands
make false wives? and that you should
imagine that I could like any man but
you!”
“I did not think so, Julia dearest!
I did not think so; it was mere waywardness.”
“Then be not wayward any more,
I pray you, for if you be so often it will
make me miserable.”
“I will not, Julia, I will not by my
soul!” But lay you down love, and
take some rest. I will watch over you,
for, believe me, I am not weary. See,
I will fill a fresh pipe and keep guard,
for all our poor soldiers are overcome
with sleep already.”
He did immediately as he said he
would, and having replenished his pipe,
and lighted anew, returned to his place
in the shade, and his fair wife, pillowing
her head on his knee, and covered with
his watch cloak, gazed fondly upward
into his face in silence, 'till the lids
waxed heavy and closed over the bright
azure orbs, and she slept peacefully and
sweetly as a happy infant.
Above an hour elapsed before the
Partisan returned, bearing on his shoulders,
the saddle of a fat buck which he
had shot during his reconnoissance,
wrapped in its own hide, and in his
right hand, together with his rifle a long
Camanche arrow reddened with dry
gore.
He found the whole party sleeping so
soundly that he walked into the very
midst of them, without disturbing one of
the number, for Gordon, despite of his
assertion that he was in no wise weary,
had sunk into a deep slumber leaning
against the trunk of the huge oak which
overshadowed him, and nothing short of
the call to “boot and saddle,” would
have aroused the dragoons from their
death-like sleep.
“Poor things!” said the Partisan,
compassionately, as he looked down upon
them—“Poor young things! little
know they the toils and hardships of a
frontier life, when they set forth on
such a route as this. But love” he continued,
still looking at the sleepers wistfully—
“Love sweetens and disguises
all their toils and perils, and I doubt
me, if they were happier in the lap of
luxury at home, than here in the midst
of peril and terror. Ay me!” he added,
with a deep sigh, uttered he scarce knew
wherefore, “Ay me! it must be a sweet
thing to be so loved, and by such a woman.
But it is one of the sweet things
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I shall never know—that much is certain.
No woman ever loved me, save
my mother—and none ever will again
in this world. But why should I think
of this, since I have chosen my own lot,
and by that, which I have chosen, must
abide. But come—come. This will
never do. I will saddle their horses,
that they may sleep to the latest moment.
He said, or rather thought no more,
for though he had murmured articulate
words occasionally, he had not uttered a
regular soliloquy—but applied himself
instantly to his self-appointed duty, collecting
the luggage, and saddling his
own charger, and the horses of his
friends. Nor until that was done did
he arouse the dragoons, and set them
to preparing for the march.
The bustle of their movements soon
aroused first Julia and then Gordon, and
in a few minutes the whole party were
again in the saddle, and in motion toward
the spot where the already westering
sun seemed to be tending across
the rolling plains which seemed at every
step of their horses to grow richer and
more luxuriant, and to be intersected at
briefer intervals by rivulets and forky
dingles.
For a short space the party rode in
silence; but at length Gordon broke it
by enquiring whether Pierre had discovered
the meaning of the vultures'
movements. He had scarcely spoken,
before he saw by the expression of the
Partisan's face, that he had committed an
error; but it was too late to remedy it,
and the Partisan, seeing that Julia's
eyes were turned towards him, answered
coolly, though with a meaning glance
addressed to the enquirer.
“They were about the carcase of a
dying elk, which they dared not attack,
until the life was quite extinct. He
had been shot yesterday or the day before
by a Camanche whose arrow I
found sticking in his ribs.”
“How can you tell that it was so long
since the poor animal was wounded?”
enquired Julia, turning rather pale, as
she heard the mention made of these
ferocious savages. How do you know
that we are not close among the Indians.”
“By many marks, lady,” replied the
Partisan, “which you would not comprehend,
even were I to describe them
to you. But by these above all—that the
blood was quite dry on the arrow and
about the wound; that the animal had
run many miles after he was shot, as
any one could see from the different
colored mud with which his hide was
splashed; and that he had lain where
I had found him many hours.”
“How could you discover that? your
instinctive knowledge seems to me, to
be almost supernatural.”
“Nothing more easily, lady. The
poor brute was unable to rise, and had
cropped all the pasture in a circle as far
as it could reach in every direction. To
one who notices the works of the great
Master closely, no one of them but has
a meaning and a voice. Let us, however
gallop forward. For I desire to
reach a spot, I know well, ere nightfall.
Nothing of consequence occurred during
their onward route. No signs of
men or horses disturbed their hopes of a
peaceful progress, and before the earliest
stars had gained their full intensity
of lustre in the darkening firmament,
they reached the halting place.
It was a little dell or basin, not overhung
with large trees, but surrounded
on all sides by low abrupt banks, covered
with impenetrable thickets of the
prickly pear, and having but one entrance
by which either man or horse
could gain admittance into the small
grassy amphitheatre which they enclosed.
That entrance was the gorge formed
by the streamlet which welled up suddenly
from a large clear springhead in
the centre of the basin; and so narrow
was the gorge, and so thickly were the
slopes on either hand set with the thorny
brakes that even there no other means
of entering presented itself, but by riding
up the mid channel of the gravelly
stream, almost belly deep in water.
Once within this fortress, the travellers
appeared to be in a state of perfect
security, and capable almost of standing
a siege, so long as provender and
ammunition should hold out; but no
thoughts of this nature occurred to their
minds—nor did they anticipate the slightest
disturbance during the night.
Fires were lighted, supper cooked,
and discussed, and then as before all lay
them calmly down to their night's repose,
the lady under the shelter of her small
pavillion, the rest on the green award
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around her, the horses being picketted
securely, and the Mexican prisoner
bound to the left arm of the sergeant,
who was the strongest man of the party,
by his own right arm, while his left was
made fast to his side by a stout surcingle.
For many hours not a sound was
heard in the neighborhood of the little
encampment. The moon rose and soared
above it in her silver beauty, and
bathed everything for miles and miles
around in soft lustre—the stars rose and
set—and the first gray of morning was
just beginning to pale the eastern horizon,
when a deep, continuous, hollow sound,
like the roar of the distant surf aroused
every one in an instant.
“Indians! it is Indians!” exclaimed
Gordon. `Stand to the horses, lads.
Strike the tent like lightning. If one
of the beast neigh or stir, we are lost.”
Three of the dragoons who had risen
to their feet on the first alarm obeyed
his orders, in an instant, as regarded the
horses, Gordon himself struck the tent;
and in deep silence, speechless and almost
breathless they awaited the result.
Nearer and nearer drew the din.
Gordon was right, it was the fast falling
tramp of unshodden horsehoofs. Five
minutes, or less, after the first alarm,
the mounted hord swept by the mouth
of the gorge, so near that the travellers
could see their shaven and plumed
scalps, their easy martial seats on their
wild horses, and their long lances in relief
against the sky. But the darkness
which brooded over the little basin protected
them, and almost as soon as it was
there, the danger had passed over, and
was ended.
But as it ended and men had time to
look around them it was perceived at
once, that one of their number, Pierre
the Partisan was missing, and that the
sergeant, although that din might have
aroused the dead, still lay asleep on the
green sward.
Asleep, indeed! in that sleep which
knows no waking. Three deep knife
wounds in his bosom, his throat cut
from ear to ear, the cords severed which
had bound him to the prisoner, would
have sufficed to tell the tale.
But the Mexican and the sergeant's
charger had vanished, and the Partisan
and brown Emperor were absent.
Horror and a sense near akin to de
spair fell on the party thus abandoned.
For a little while they gazed in each
other's faces, mute and white with surprise
if not with terror.
Gordon was the first to recover from
his consternation and he spoke cheeringly.
“The prisoner has escaped, and the
Partisan has gone in pursuit of him;
that is clear,” he said. We have nothing
to do but to wait here until he returns.
We have food in abundance;
and water and forage for the horses,
and we can keep this pass against all
the Indians in the universe so long as our
ammunition lasts—and we can fire five
hundred rounds—if the Camanches
find us out, which I think they will not.
Keep good heart, therefore, men and
trust me, Pierre Delacroix will be back
here before sunset.”
“But the Camanches! have not they
cut him off?” whispered Julia, who
had not spoken one word since the first
alarm, but had behaved with the cool
passive, fortitude of a brave noble woman,
awaiting the end in silent resignation.
“Surely not,” replied Gordon, confidently.
“Had they fallen in with
him, his brave horse would surely have
outstripped them, and in his flight he
would surely have led them in a contrary
direction from this our strong
hold.”
“Surely he would! you are right!
you are right!” said the quick witted
girl—“God's name be praised, you are
right, Frank, he is safe.”
“And will be here among us before
the sun shall set which is now on the
point of rising,” was his cheerful answer.
CHAPTER VII. THE BELEAGUERED CAMP.
The day dawned calm and clear, the
skies were pure and cloudless, the atmosphere
soft, balmy and delicious, and
the light air laden with a thousand odors
gathered from the dew besprent flowers
of the rich prairie land around them. No
sound disturbed the stillness of those vast
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solitudes, except the rippling music of
the little rill, trickling over the yellow
pebbles with its swift glancing current.
The night had been one of anxiety
and sleeplessness to all, to Julia of unmixed
apprehension, if not terror. From
the moment in which the wild horde of
the North American desert had swept
like a tornado past the gorge of the small
basin which sheltered them, not a breath
of the delicious night breeze but seemed
to bear to her ears the clatter of returning
horse-hoofs, and the yell of the
exulting savages.
Nor was their position indeed other
than one of extreme perplexity and peril.
Tracked as they had every reason to believe
themselves, by the blood thirsty
lancers of Carrera, whom their lately
escaped captive would surely conduct to
their hiding place; deprived of the
trusty guide and gallant soldier, in whom
their only hope was centered, and now
surrounded by roaming bands of the
bravest, fiercest and most warlike tribe
of Indians in the world, there was indeed
ample cause why bold men should almost
tremble, why women should almost despair.
No further alarm, however, had followed
the passage of the wild Camanches;
and, save the melancholy cry of
a distant owl from one of the many woodland
isles, which dotted the expanse of
the open prairie, no sound had reached
the ears of the anxious watchers.
The moon had set soon after the alarm
was given, and thereafter the little party
had remained in utter darkness, for the
camp fires had been instantly extinguished,
except the faint glimmering of the
stars which were momentarily paling in
the heavens.
Gradually, as the feeble light of the
increasing dawn began to creep up from
the eastern horizon, and to spread its pale
grayish hues over the boundless plains,
the anxiety of the little party grew almost
into agony.
That feeble twilight, which was so
slowly waxing into day, was to be the
harbinger to them of escape, of safety, or
of despairing strife, captivity and outrage.
Eager and penetrating eyes were
strained to pierce the deceptive misty haze
half light half darkness, which brooded
over the level champaign, long before it
was possible to distinguish objects at a
distance of more than two hundred
paces.
An hour passed away, and the skies
grew brighter apace and brighter; and
then the sun heaved the rim of his great
blood-red disk above the waving line,
which formed the low horizon; and the
lurid rust-colored rays streamed long and
level over the undulating plains, tipping
the ridge of every billowy swell with
ruddy gold, and leaving the long hollows
filled with soft purplish shadows.
And still the eye could discern nothing
accurate or certain, whereby to judge of
the presence or absence of their wily and
insidious foes. Several times, one or
other of the party pointed out, here and
there, streaming up from the wide landscape
columns of pure white vapor, which
were pronounced confidentlly to be the
smokes of Indian camp fires; until, one
after another, they melted away under
the increasing warmth of the morning
sun, and proved to be no more than exhalations
from some stagnant pool or
solitary well-head in the boundless waste.
At length the sun had attained such an
altitude that all the lay and surface of
the land for many a league around, with
the exception of the basins of some two
or three deeper valleys, could be surveyed
with ease from the summit of the
low knolls, which surrounded the small
amphitheatre; and as soon as this was
the case, Arthur Gordon mounted the
crest of the highest elevation, carefully
keeping his figure backed by the low
trees and thorny underwood which clothed
the hill, and swept the whole panorama
with a powerful telescope.
The open country, which he surveyed
the first and with the most care, he soon
discovered to be free and unguarded.—
There was no sign of man or his works;
and, what was a yet surer proof that he
was not in the immediate neighborhood,
at many different points of the landscape
the young soldier discovered herds of the
various wild animals, which inhabit those
great plains, pasturing or disporting
themselves in quiet security.
Above a thousand head of wild cattle
were in sight, feeding here and there in
detached groups, or lying on the dewy
grass chewing the cud, undisturbed and
fearless. One great herd of wild horses,
not numbering less than two hundred,
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were leisurely traversing a distant headland,
and two other little parties, one
consisting only of four animals, among
which was conspicious the far-famed
white horse of the prairies, were feeding
nearer to the foreground of the picture.
Besides these, several gangs of Elk,
the noblest and most splendid of all the
denizens of the western wilderness, and
countless groups of deer and antelopes,
dotted the grassy plains, all evidently
unconscious of the vicinity of man.
Satisfied thus far, Gordon turned his
glass toward the numerous belts and
clumps of timber, which studded the
whole face of the country, but with far
less success, and to no satisfaction.—
The shadows of the past night still hung
as if it were reluctant to depart, in these
umbrageous haunts, into which, even at
midday the sunbeams penetrate only
with an uncertain and interrupted lustre.
His utmost exertion of eye, aided by
the powerful glass, which had so often
done him good service in the field, here
availed him nothing; and he was many
times in doubt whether, among the dense
chapparal, and between the thickest
stems of the trees, he did not catch fleeting
glimpses of the untamed steeds and
tawny figures of the dreaded savage.
Imagination also was at work; and
often, when in truth it was but a stray
sunbeam, which had lost its way among
the thick green leaves, and was glinted
back by some sylvan lakelet, he saw
the flashing fire of a Camanche camp,
and almost pictured to himself the forms
of the swart barbarians about the ruddy
embers.
By degrees, however, he discovered
that these things were but the creation
of fast coining fancy; and he became
tolerably well assured that nothing of
human shape or mien had as yet met his
eye. Still he could not be satisfied that
the dreaded enemy might not be lurking
within half a mile of his encampment—
nay, that they might not be perfectly
aware of his own whereabouts and numbers,
and waiting for the moment of
his moving to set upon him at advantage.
His heart was notwithstanding somewhat
lighter, and his features had a less
care worn expression, as he closed the
glass and descended the eminence to join
his fair young wife, who waited his arrival
with indescribable anxiety, altho'
she had sufficient self-control and courage
to keep a cheerful face and firm
demeanor.
“Well, Julia,” he exclaimed, as he
came near to join her, “we may rest
tranquil for the present, God be thanked!
There are no Indians in sight on the
praire, and I have surveyed it for leagues
on leagues around; nor is there any sign
of our Mexican pursuers.”
“But what of the Partisan?” cried
the fair girl eagerly. “Can you see
nothing that gives note of him, or of his
coming?”
“Nothing. Indeed, there are many
signs to show that there is no human
being within miles, except ourselves,
unless he be concealed as cunningly as
we are. The plains are alive with elk,
and deer, and wild cattle; and there are
several herds of wild horses in full view
roaming about secure and fearless.”
“That is bad news, indeed,” she answered
gravely, and her countenance
fell as she spoke. “Alas! I fear he has
been taken by those fearful savages—”
“I trust not,” replied Arthur, “and
what is more, I think not. For, had
they made a prisoner of one so famous,
and so formidable to them, as the Partisan,
they would have halted on the spot
to hold their barbarous orgies. He is
too wary and too wise to be entrapped
so easily.”
“But if he be not, wherefore should
he tarry, when he must know how desperate
is our position, how terrible must
be our anxiety.”
“A hundred things may have occur
red to hinder his return. The savages
may be interposed between him and the
camp; the Mexican runagate, of whom
he is in pursuit, may have led him so
far astray that he could not return.—
In a word, Julia, now that the day has
fairly broken, I do not look for him before
night is again dark over the prairie;
with enemies about on every side, he
is not like to stir abroad by daylight.”
“You do not know him, Arthur,” she
replied quickly, a bright enthusiastic
gleam kindling within her soft blue eye.
“That man would risk a thousand foes
fearless, ere he would leave a woman in
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distress and danger. You do not know
him Arthur.'
“I do know him, Julia, and judge of
him even as you do, though perhaps,”
he added with a smile, “a little more soberly
and coolly. The Partisan is certain,
as certain as if he saw us now, that
we have not quitted this hiding place,
and thaat we shall not quit it, until we
may do so with good hope of moving
unmolested; and, should he ride hitherward
in the open day, and be detected
doing so, his coming would bring us ruin
and not safety.”
“And what will you do, now Arthur?”
“Stay where we are till midnight;
then, if he have not joined us, make our
way by the compass toward Monterey,
and trust to God and our good swords
for our safety. Cheer up, beloved one,
I have been in a worse plight than this
ere now, though never with so sweet a
comrade. For we have food in plenty,
and good horses, and stout hearts, and
strong arms to defend us.”
“Nay, I am not afraid,” she answered,
with a faint smile, “not much
afraid, I mean, though I believe the
danger is very great; but I am with
you, Arthur, and that is something always,
and live or die, at least we shall
live or die together. Great God!” she
added, turning her beautiful eyes upward,
“how great would be my agony,
were I at home in luxury and safety,
and know that you were thus, Arthur.”
“I would that you were—I would to
God that you were at home and in safety,
Julia; and I, if need were, even in a
worse plight than this. My heart would
be lighter, though perhaps my arm
would be weaker than it is now, with
your sweet, calm courage kindling me
to exertion. But come, dearest, let us
go down into the camp. I will post a
sentinel on yon hillock, and then we
will pass the day as easily as we can.—
You were better get some sleep if you
can after breakfast, and I and my fellows
will lay poor Sergeant Davis in
the earth, which, if it be not consecrated,
will at least shield him from the
ravening wolf and the loathsome vulure.”
“I will assist! I will assist, too,
Gordon,” she replied, her soft azure
eyes filling with tears. “Poor Davis!
poor, poor fellow! He was as brave as
his own good sword, and so kind and
gentle ever in his bearing towards me.
I have often caught him gazing at me
when he thought I marked him not, as
though he pitied me.”
“He pitied but admired more, my
Julia. He was a man above his station—
a man of worth and education,
before he entered the ranks, and in any
service but ours, in which it seems that
to be a gallant and a veteran soldier is a
bar to promotion, he would have long
since fought his way to a commission.
He won the triple chevrons on
the disastrous field of Okuchobee, and
has been the foremost in every charge
from that day until now. Him shall
the bugle never stir again to deeds of
daring, but his name will live long in
the memory of his comrades—of his superiors,
and the soldier's best epitaph
will be his, `he died in his duty.”'
“Ah,” replied Julia, with a sigh, “is
it the fate of nations in all ages to be
thankless and ungrateful?”
“The fate of free nations,” answered
Arthur Gordon, “the most free,
the least grateful. Tyrants may be
capricious. People are selfish. Those
reward gorgeously and punish cruelly;
these neglect virtues, yet do not pardon
vices. But men who serve their country
best, serve not for guerdon, nor
yet for glory, but for love, conscience,
duty.”
“A hero's speech!” cried Julia,
laughing aloud, and inspirited by the
eager and excited tone in which he
spoke. “May the high speech be parent
to the high achievement, and that to
the high renown.”
“Beautiful prophetess!” he answered,
gazing at her fondly. “This,
at the least is certain, there would be
more heroes if there were more Julias.
But come,” he continued, “a truce to
sentiment and glory, and let us see if
we cannot fare daintily, even though
our camp be beleaguered.”
CHAPTER VIII. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
In spite of every effort of the young
dragoon, the morning meal passed
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silently and sadly; he could not for his life
sufficiently abstract his mind from the
consideration of the perils which environed
not only himself but her whom he
so dearly loved, to maintain the conversation,
which he set on foot several times,
only as it would seem to flag as soon as
it was commenced.
And she whom he would have diverted,
could he have commanded his
own soul from the gloomy thoughts in
which she was plunged, sat motionless
and pale as statuary marble; and
though a faint glow would enkindle
her white cheek for a moment, and a
transient smile flit across her quivering
lip, as the voice she loved to hear addressed
her with words of cheerfulness
and comfort, she relapsed almost immediately
into gloomy silence, and seemed
to be unconscious of all that was passing
around her.
The simple viands to which yesterday
the Spartan sauce of healthful
hunger had lent a flavor so agreeable,
now lay before her untasted or distasteful,
and it was only by an effort that
she compelled herself to swallow the
coffee which Gordon pressed upon her
as a necessary stimulant, even if it
were not a refreshment.
It was perhaps a relief to both when
the breakfast was ended; and Julia,
worn out with the watching and alarm
of the past night, coupled with the fatigues
of so many days passed in the
saddle, withdrew to court repose under
the shelter of the little tent, which had
been pitched once more in the most secret
nook of their sylvan amphitheatre.
Then turning to the performance of
his active duties, as much perhaps to
divert his own mind from anxious and
painful reflections, as that those duties
were of any great real moment or utility,
the youthful soldier once more ascended
the eminence on which his sentinel
was posted, and carefully surveyed
the country round his halting-place.
The sun had now gained so much elevation
that the morning mists were altogether
dispersed, and his broad rays
were poured down far and near over the
whole expanse of grassy plain and leafy
forest.
No signs, however, were to be discovered,
from the farthest horizon to
the near foreground, of anything like
humanity, and when Arthur Gordon
came down from his watch-post, he did
so in the full conviction that no immediate
danger threatened him, nor would he
have hesitated about setting forth on his
march, but for the absence of the Partisan,
whose return he still confidently
looked for.
He had determined, happen what
might, to wait patiently until the shades
of night should fall, and the day was to
be consumed by some means or other.
One duty there was, which might in
truth be deemed imperative—the consigning
to its last resting place of their
gallant comrade's body, and to this, leaving
one of the dragoons on the hill-top
to guard against surprise, he applied
himself in the first instance.
The sabres of his dragoons, and an
axe or two, which had been brought
with them as a part of the camp equipage,
sufficed to scoop out a little hollow
in the rich soil of the moist basin,
hard by the streamlet's bed, and in it,
wrapped in his watch-cloak, with his
plumed shako on his head, and his good
sword on his thigh, all that was earthly
of the gallant veteran was laid to take
its long last sleep, that sleep which
knows no earthly waking. There was
in that sad ceremony none of the proud,
yet melancholy pomp which marks the
soldier's funeral—no dead march pealing
solemnly from the wild bugle and
the muffled drum—no slow and hollow
tramp of the grave escort, following
with dark warworn features and reversed
arms the coffin of their comrade—no
charger led along with mourning trappings—
no sword and helm and gauntlet
displayed upon the coffin's lid—no,
there were none of these. But truer
and sincerer was the tribute paid by the
faltering voice of the commanding officer,
as he read in the earnest, subdued
tones of real feeling the touching ritual
of the church of England, and by the
heavy tears that fell from the eyes of
the two hardy soldiers, who having dug
his grave and laid him in the bosom of
his mother earth, leaned on their carbines,
gazing down upon his grim and
ghastly features, well knowing that his
fate might be their own ere nightfall.
The heart of Arthur Gordon was
stirred to its utmost depths; strange
thoughts, half sad and half sublime
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crowded upon his spirit, and all that
there was of sentiment and romance
within him—and there is some within
the soul of every human being however
slow or stolid—was awakened, and he
read those thrilling sentences from Paul's
epistle to the Corinthians, with a vigor
of enunciation, an eloquence of tone
and an inspiration of manner which fairly
startled his rough listeners, and called
forth perceptions in their souls of
which they had lived hitherto unconscious.
So high did his accents rise, and so
strangely did they ring in that wild solitude,
which surely never before had
known its echoes awakened by the
sounds of the gospel truth, that the
sentinel on the little hill turned his
eyes from the country, to watch which
he was posted there, and stood gazing
down with moisty eyes and a full heart
upon the solemn group gathered around
the sergeant's grave.
Julia, too, awakened from her light
and restless slumbers by the raised
tones of her young husband's voice,
had come forth from her tent, and
stood beside the reader in her snow-white
dress, with her long chestnut
ringlets floating disorderly on the soft
morning air, too bright and beautiful a
being to belong to so rude a party, to
be mingled in so strange a scene.
“Behold,” cried the young dragoon,
his voice rising more and more emphatically
with the rising sublimity of
his subject, “Behold, I shew you a
mystery. We shall not all sleep, but
we shall all be changed in a moment,
in the twinkling of an eye, at the last
trump, for the trumpet shall sound—”
But scarcely had the words passed
his lips, when he started as if he had
received a blow, nor he alone but every
one of those who stood about the grave,
and Julia even uttered a faint cry, and
gazed on the face of the dead man in
horrid uncertainty, as if she expected
to see him start from the slumbers of
the grave.
For, at the very moment when Arthur
Gordon uttered the word, the long,
shrill note of a bugle, clearly and powerfully
winded, rose upon the morning
air, as it seemed close beside them.
It was the first impression of the
young officer, that the bugler of his
party, struck by the coincidence of the
fine passage with his own profession,
and carried away by his feelings, had
ventured upon this singular accompaniment,
and he was on the point of
rebuking him sternly for his unmilitary
conduct, when the astonished air of the
man, and the absence of the instrument
satisfied him that he must seek another
cause for the interruption.
One glance at the sentinel satisfied
him. For aroused by the bugle call to
a recollection of his neglected duty, the
man had turned round to reconnoitre
the prairie in the rear of the low hills,
and had instantly crouched down among
the underwood to avoid being discovered,
as he had been ordered to do in
case of the appearance of an enemy.
Motioning to his men that they should
remain at ease, Arthur Gordon bounded
at ten springs to the soldier's side,
and saw a sight which for the moment
made his bold heart stand still. A troop
of Mexican lancers, splendidly equipped
and well mounted, although on undersized
horses, had emerged from the
nearest point of forest land, and marching
onward silently, over the deep
greensward of the prairie, were now
actually wheeling round the outer base
of the low hill on which he stood, and
which alone concealed his party from
their view.
They were sixty in number, dressed
in green uniforms with crimson facings,
and crimson trousers richly laced, and
slouched hats with gaudy bands and
gorgeous plumes fluttering in the air,
as did the crimson banderols of their
long glittering lances. Two officers,
gallantly equipped, and bestriding animals
vastly superior to the chargers of
the men, rode at the head of the troop,
with their eyes fixed upon the ground,
endeavoring, as Gordon speedily discovered,
to trace the hoof-marks of his
own horses in the moist greensward.
The young officer's heart beat fast
and thick, and he positively trembled
with the violence of his excitement, of
his apprehension. He doubted not that
all was lost, and that another moment
would see the cruel and licentious sons
of the fierce Spaniard, the masters of
his own, of his sweet Julia's destiny.
Wild thoughts and wicked whirled
madly for the moment through his
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distracted brain, and as he thought of the
utter hopelessness of strife or resistance,
as he recalled to mind the dread
tales he had heard of torture, and outrage
worse than torture wrought on defenceless
women by the exasperated
Mexicans, he grasped the butts of his
pistols, half resolved to save himself
and her whom he loved far above himself,
from that extremity of evil, by
kindly murder and self immolation.
Well was it for them both, however,
that he paused ere he accomplished his
dread determination, for just as he
turned on his heel to rush down into the
valley where his fair wife stood in mute
consternation, the officers in advance
pulled in their horses abruptly, and the
word was passed to halt so suddenly
that the troop was thrown into some
confusion, the front ranks halting instantly,
and those in the rear pressing
tumultuously to the front, ere they
could check their small but spirited
horses.
They had come, it appeared, upon
the broad track left on the plain by the
headlong passage of the wild Camanches,
and as through a singular piece
of good fortune, the point at which the
savages had leaped the little rivulet
was the same at which the dragoons
had entered it and ridden upward into
the basin where it rose, the tracks of
the two parties were completely mixed
up and confounded.
It was evident that the Mexican lancers
were much disturbed and alarmed
by the certainty, which they perceived
at a glance, that they were in the close
vicinity of the dreaded Camanches,
those Ishmaelites of the western wilderness.
Their ranks were hastily re-formed
their escopetas were unslung, the primings
inspected, the swords loosened in
their scabbards, and every thing made
ready for immediate action.
“Our march has been useless,” said
the captain of the troop to his licutenant,
in their own tongue; “the savages have
taken them, that is plain enough.”
“Not useless, thanks be to God,” returned
the other, “for we have learned
their fate at least; and little matters it
to us how the accursed Yankees perish,
so they do perish. Carrera will be well
pleased, Captain, to learn that they are
all cut off without loss to our brave fellows;
for, though they were but five,
they would have fought like incarnate
devils, and cost us half a dozen empty
saddles at the least.”
“True, true!” replied the captain
hastily; “but we are not so safe ourselves.
These cursed savages are within
sight and hearing of us, even now, it
is like enough. I should not wonder if
they were lurking in this chapparal, on
the hill-sides here, at this moment.”
A bright thought flashed upon the
mind of Gordon, at this juncture; and
well knowing the terror which the Mexicans
entertained for the wild rovers, he
determined to act upon it on the instant.
Among some other curiosities and trinkets
which had been picked up in the
course of their march, there was a powerful
Indian bow, and a quiver full of
long well-feathered arrows; and, to
bring these up from the camp, he instantly
despatched the soldier who was
crouching by his side.
In the meantime, the conversation between
the Spanish officers continued in
rapid and eager sentences.
“How far is the main-guard behind
us?” asked the commander of the party,
hastily, of a trooper who rode up from
the rear.
“About a league, senor captain,” replied
the man, saluting as he spoke.
“Take a sergeant's guard, and ride
back for your life!” returned the
doughty commander, “and inform the
colonel that a strong force of Camanches
is close before us, and that we are in
momentary expectation of attack!”
A small group was instantly detached
from the troop, and away they went at
the top of their speed, now lost to view
as they dashed down some long declivity,
now glancing on the eye as they
toiled up some rolling swell of the green
prairie—their active little horses spurning
the sod high into the air behind their
rapid hoofs, and their plumes and banderols
streaming out in the current of
air, created by their own swift motion.
“Were it not well, captain, to let all
the bugles sound the alarm? It may be
they would hear them, and spur on at
once.”
“More like that the savages would
hear and understand them, and so fall
upon us ere the succor should come up.”
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“They would scarcely dare, captain,
to attack so strong a force as ours,” interposed
the cornet, who appeared to
possess something more of spirit than his
companions.
“Not dare! they dare anything, the
accursed devils!” replied the leader.
“And, as for strength, they cannot be
less than forty in number, by these hoof-tracks.”
“But they have no fire-arms.”
“Tush! a Camanche arrow will carry
farther and kill more surely than the
ball of an escopeta,” returned the captain,
sharply. “You have seen nothing
as yet, I believe, of these Indians, Cornet
Valdiz?”
Little he thought, as he spoke, that
his own words were destined to be made
good on his own person; yet so, in truth,
it was. For, ere the sounds had yet
died upon his lips, an arrow whistled
from the bow which Gordon drew to its
utmost tension, as he lay hidden in the
thorny brake, scarce twenty paces distant;
and striking the unhappy Mexican
full in the breast, pierced him through
and through, and fairly came out at his
back, literally reeking with his life-blood.
A wild and thrilling yell followed, no
mean imitation of the Camanche war
cry; for so long had the young dragoon
served on the south-western frontier,
that the war cries, and even the languages,
of many of the Indian tribes,
were nearly as familiar to him as his
native tongue.
Another and another, and another
shaft succeeded, so rapidly did he notch
them on the tough sinew, and discharge
them. But he shot no longer with the
deliberate aim and fatal execution of the
first arrow, and death no longer followed
the twang of the quick-drawn bowstring.
Still two of the three arrows, though
discharged almost at random, found a
mark, as they fell in the midst of the
serried ranks, and a man and a horse
were wounded.
No more was needed: without waiting
for any word or signal, the lancers
turned their reins, set spurs to their
horses, and gallopped off as hard as they
could ride—their officers yielding at first
to the panic, and leaving their comman
der writhing in his death-pangs on the
gory sod.
Still Gordon whooped and yelled from
his covert, and shot arrow after arrow
into their receding ranks, until his quiver
was nearly empty, and he had seen
that the last shaft fell short of the enemy.
This they, too, now perceived; and,
after some little effort of the officers, the
troop was halted, rallied, and re-formed,
with its front facing the low hills which
held, as they supposed, the fierce and
murderous savages.
Then at a word they levelled their
escopetas, and the first rank poured in
a volley, not a single bullet of which so
much as fell among the underwood by
which Gordon was sheltered from their
view. Breaking off from the centre,
right and left, the front rank now wheeled
at quick time to the rear, and the
second rank in its turn fired and wheeled
off, the third following its example.
And so they continued working, continually
increasing their distance from
the dangerous covert, until they had
actually discharged twelve rounds each
man, not a single ball of which but had
fallen short of the supposed ambush of
the enemy.
Then, finding that they were unpursued,
and that no missiles were directed
against them from the underwood, they
stood firm; and eagerly reflecting that,
if their firing had failed to provoke an
attack from the savages, their bugles
would probably have no more effect,
while they might possibly stir up their
lagging countrymen to increased exertion,
they made the plains and woods
re-echo, for miles around, with the long
flourishes of their wind instruments.
Scarcely had the brazen clangor subsided
into silence, before it was taken
up and repeated in the remote distance,
by an answering flourish, and the head
of a heavy column of cavalry, apparently
some hundreds strong, was seen
emerging from the forest, at three or
four miles' distance to the eastward.
As he beheld this demonstration, the
heart of Gordon began once more to
beat thick and painfully, and he doubted
the wisdom of the ruse, which he had
practised in order to drive the intrusive
Mexicans from too close a neighborhood
to his own quarters.
For now that he saw the powerful
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body which was moving steadily forward
to rejoin their advanced party,
judging from experience, and from the
consideration of what would be his own
conduct at the head of such a force,
with a mere handful of marauding savages
before him, he felt assured that,
so soon as the regiment should come up,
his position would be attacked in form,
and his successful ruse discovered.
Indeed, so strong was his conviction
of the certainty of this termination, that
had it been possible for him to extricate
himself from the amphitheatre which he
occupied, without issuing on the plain
directly in the face of the lancers, he
would unhesitatingly have evacuated
his camp, abandoned his baggage, and
made the best of his way toward the
forest-land which closed the view of the
horizon to the westward.
As it was, however, no such option
was given to him, and he had no alternative
but to remain perdu where he
was, in the hope that the cowardice and
imbecility of the Mexican leaders might
deter them from attacking a position
which certainly, if manned by riflemen,
or even by the archery of the Camanches,
would have offered some difficulties
to the attack of cavalry, so dense
and thorny was the brake which covered
the low hills.
He descended therefore from his
post, charging the sentinel, whom he
left behind on the verge of the knoll, to
keep a good look out; and, after telling
the two troopers in the hollow that the
danger of discovery was at an end for
the present, and desiring them to cover
the grave of their comrade, and to surround
it with an abattis of branches, in
order to prevent the wolves from dragging
forth the miserable relics of humanity,
passed into the little tent to
console the lovely girl who was awaiting
his return, breathless and pale, but
wonderfully self-composed and patient.
Not many minutes was he permitted
to remain in that sweet companionship,
for, before a quarter of an hour had
elapsed, one of the dragoons thrust his
head through the opening in the canvass
wall, and gave his officer notice that the
sentinel on the hill was making signals
that something was in process on the
plain below.
“I will return in an instant, dearest,”
he exclaimed, “or at least will send
you word what is happening. Be of
good cheer, for in truth I think there is
little danger. These Dons, I fancy,
will scarcely try another Indian arrow.”
He clasped her to his heart, pressed
one long kiss on her pure lips, and
rushed forth, half maddened between
the excitement of the soldier, and the
apprehension of the man and lover.
A moment brought him to the signal
post, this time accompanied by the old
soldier whom he had appointed sergeant
in the room of the deceased; and, as he
cast his eyes upon the landscape, a
sight met them which made his blood at
first stagnate in his veins with horror,
and then thrill fiercely with returning
hope of safety.
CHAPTER IX. THE SKIRMISH.
It was now about eleven o'clock in
the morning, and not a vestige of cloud
was to be discovered in the clear blue
firmament, nor a fleece of vaporous mist
over any portion of the fair wide landscape.
Everything was distinctly visible
for miles in all directions — the smallest
outlines of the most minute objects being
as sharp and definite as in a Dutch picture.
And the picture was, in truth, both
beautiful and striking in itself, as it was
full of interest to the observers.
At the moment when Gordon reached
his post of observation, the troop of lancers,
whom he had driven off by his
well devised stratagem, and whom he
had last seen arrayed with their front
toward his own station, at some three or
four hundred yards distance, had
changed their face, and taken up a
new position, some forty or fifty yards
farther off, on a line oblique to that on
which they had previously been drawn
up.
Their right flank was now opposed to
the hill, on which he stood, their front
flank facing to the west, so that their
rear was in some sort covered by the
main body of cavalry, which had now
come up to within a couple of miles,
and was still advancing at a trot, with
colors displayed and bugles sounding.
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The cause of this change in their disposition
was evident at a glance, for
directly in front of the advanced troop,
coming down upon them at the full
speed of their wild horses, filling the
air with their savage whoops and yells,
was a band of savages, in full war array,
and evidently bent on an immediate attack.
The numbers of the two parties were
nearly equal, although the Mexicans
were, if anything, rather the stronger;
and although the advantage of arms was
in favor of the troopers, the Camanches
carrying no firelocks, it was still more
than doubtful whether the extraordinary
skill of the latter, with the bow and arrow,
would not more than counterbalance
the mere superiority of weapons.
The Mexican lancers, indeed, stood
their ground firmly, and reserved their
fire steadily enough, until the savages
were within perhaps a hundred yards of
their front; but, notwithstanding the
good face they showed, it was very
evident to the young dragoon, that, had
it not been for the vicinity of their reinforcements,
they would not have abided
the brunt of the Indian onset.
At this moment, the bugle of the
Mexicans gave the signal to commence
firing; and a bright flash of flame ran
rapidly along the front of the lancers,
who, under the cover of the smoke, opened
from the centre, as before, and
wheeled off, right and left, to the rear,
in order to reload.
The effect of the volley was, however,
less than insignificant, for not only,
not a single saddle of the Camanches
was emptied; but not a sign of wavering
or flinching was visible among the
wild warriors.
On the contrary they urged their horses
to yet fiercer speed, brandishing their
long spears in the air, and notching their
arrows to the string, as they rode at full
gallop.
Suddenly, with a fearful and appalling
yell they launched a cloud of long barbed
cloth-yard shafts into the centre of the
Mexicans. In the instant all was confusion
and disarray. A dozen men
went down—some transfixed by three
or four several arrows, shrieking and
writhing in intolerable anguish; many
others were wounded more or less severely,
and half a score of horses,
pierced by the keen barbed points, and
goaded into madness, bolted and plunged,
and yerked out their armed heels
against their fallen masters, against
their own companions, all frantic and
ungovernable.
Still, however, the semblance of discipline
was maintained: the front rank
closed up shoulder to shoulder, as they
best might, over the dead and dying,
and steadily reserved their fire, obedient
to the command of their officers, who,
to do them justice, did their duty, at
this crisis, soldierly and well.
Disappointed, as it would seem, by
this unexpected coolness on the part of
their enemies, the savages wheeled off
and dispersed like a flock of wild fowl,
each warrior acting as it were independently,
whirling around the troopers at
full speed, yelling and howling hideously,
and evidently waiting only for a
moment of unsteadiness to break in bodily
upon the troop, and bring it to a
hand to hand encounter.
At this juncture the main body of
horse, which, had it continued to advance,
as was its evident duty, would,
ere this have been in action, slackened
its pace and finally came to a halt,
pushing forward a party of a dozen
men as if to reconnoitre, and throwing
out small detachments on all sides to
beat the neighboring coverts, as if they
were afraid of being drawn into an ambush.
This strange and inexplicable piece
of cowardice, while it palpably depressed
and chilled the spirits of the lancers,
gave new courage to the savages, who
once more collected themselves into a
single squad, and appeared to be on the
point of charging. Before it came to
this, however, the captain of the lancers
called out one, probably, of his best
men, and sent him off, from his rear,
toward the main body, with the intention
evidently of calling for immediate
succor. No sooner did the savages
perceive this manœvre, than half a
dozen of them dashed forth at full speed,
and whirling round the right flank of
the troopers, between them and the
wooded hillocks, under a smart running
fire, to which they did not give the
slightest heed, lashed their wild mustangs
furiously along in pursuit of the
headlong messenger.
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So nearly did they pass to Arthur
Gordon's hiding place, that he could
distinguish the colors of their war paint,
the wavings of the eagle feathers which
adorned their scalp locks, and the very
features of the individual savages.
It was a strangely thrilling sight to
mark the incidents of that tremendous
race. The Mexican, knowing that he
was pursued, and well aware that to be
overtaken was to die, spurred on for
life—for life—while, hot for blood, and
a thirst for plunder, the furious savages
yelled frantically, and shot their arrows
after him, as they rode at full speed.
For a while the soldier appeared to
gain on the Indians; and it appeared
probable that he would succeed in making
good his escape to his countrymen,
the advanced squad of whom were hurrying
forward to meet him. But just
as he had looked behind him measuring
his distance from the enemy, with a
watchful and anxious eye, and satisfied
of his safety, had set up a shout of exultation,
an arrow, drawn to the head,
was shot after him, by a practised hand,
from a tough bow. It whistled through
the air with an ominous and fearful
sound, and took effect on the lancer's
horse in the hollow behind the ribs, entering
the animal's vitals to the very
feather.
With that piercing and dreadful
shriek, which the horse never utters
but in moments of the most excruciating
anguish, the tortured beast plunged high
into the air, and fell headlong to the
earth.
The rider extricated himself actively
from the fallen animal, and set off
as hard as he could run, shouting for
aid in tones of deathful agony. But it
was all too late; for ere he had run
twenty paces, and while the lancers
who were now coming on at a charge,
were still two hundred yards distant, a
tall gaunt savage gallopped up to him
and drove his long spear through his
body, the keen point entering at his
shoulders, and coming out below his
breast-bone.
Checking his fierce steed instantly,
the savage sprung down to the ground,
and uttering a tremendous howl, the
well-known death halloo, which was
taken up and repeated in dread cadence
by his tribesmen, gashed the head of the
fallen man with his long keen knife,
regardless of his screams and struggles,
and tore the scalp from his gory skull,
while he was still alive, and sensible of
the cruel agony.
The lancers immediately discharged
their escopetas, the balls of which fell
thick around him, one of them even
took effect on the Indian, piercing the
fleshy part of his bridle arm, but he
seemed scarcely to perceive that he
was hit: so lightly did he spring to the
saddle, wheel his unbroken horse, and
dart backward to rejoin his horde, insulting
the Mexican soldiers with
strange cries and obscene gestures.
Again the main body of the lancers
halted, partly, as it would appear, to
comfort their wounded comrade, and
partly in terror at the scene which
was enacting at the same moment on
their advanced squadron.
For excited by the sight of their
countryman's success, the Camanches
charged down lance in hand, to within
sixty or eighty paces of the troopers,
who received them with a swift running
fire, which emptied two or three of
their saddles. This did not, however,
check their onset, and the second rank
in its turn delivered a close volley, killing
four more of the Indians, and instantly
wheeled off to the rear of their
third rank to re-load.
At this moment, the great war-chief
of the Camanches, who was mounted
on a magnificent roan horse, and distinguished
by a necklace of the claws
of the grisly bear, the greatest trophy of
an Indian warrior's prowess, dashed to
the front of his tribe, and gallopped along
the whole line of the Mexican lancers,
brandishing his long feathered lance
over his head, and uttering loud yells
of defiance.
So rapidly had all this passed, that
none of the troopers who had previously
discharged their pieces, had as yet reloaded;
and now the third rank emptied
their carabines one by one, firing with
deliberate aim at the dauntless chief,
who took no more heed of their bullets,
as they rattled one by one against the
tough shield of bull's hide which covered
his whole body, than he would have
done of so many hailstones.
When the last piece was discharged,
and he was still unwounded, he uttered
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a long yell of peculiar import to his
wild followers, and putting his horse's
head straight at the front of the troops,
rode at them, lance in rest, at full gallop.
No sooner did the savages hear that
fierce cry, and perceive the success of
their chieftain's manœuvre, than they
followed his example, and burst like a
torrent upon the astonished regulars,
before they had time to draw a sword
or couch a lance, much less to spur
their chargers to their speed to meet
their onset at a charge.
The shock was fierce and irresistible;
and in less than a minute the ranks of
the Mexicans were thoroughly broken,
and the conflict was converted into a
series of single combats.
The lance, the tomahawk, the sabre,
and the knife all did their work of
slaughtering; it was a blind and bloody
melee, in which each man, civilized or
savage, fought desperately and to the
last, for the dear life. The yells of the
savages, the shouts of the Spanish soldiery,
the screams of the wounded
horses, and the groans of the dying
were blended into a dreadful diapason,
above which shrill and limpid rose the
clear blast of the Mexican bugle, and
the shivering clash of steed.
No quarter was given or asked on
either side, and there was neither flight
nor flinching, for the two parties were
so equally balanced in point of numbers,
that they were actually fighting
from the first, almost man to man, and
in truth it was almost a death grapple.
By degrees, however, as the Mexicans
went down one by one before the
untamed energies and desperate fierceness
of the Indians, the numbers engaged
became more and more unequal;
and when the strife had lasted about
twenty minutes, the main body of the
Mexican horse making no real demonstration
of assisting their advanced
guard, the few survivors of the lancers
breke away as they best might from the
horrible scene of havoc, and spurred
their jaded horses in mad terror across
the plain, pursued by their ruthless enemies,
who rode them down, and speared
or tomahawked them singly almost
without resistance, until there was not
literally a single soldier left alive, unless
he were mortally wounded, and
rolling on the gory and trampled turf
in his death agony.
Not above a dozen of the Camanches
had fallen altogether, although
many more were wounded, and some
three or four dismounted. Still so bold
were they, and so much inspirited by
the ease of their recent victory, that after
dismounting almost within carabine shot
of the cavalry force, to scalp and plunder
their vanquished enemies, they actually
galloped forward, shouting and
yelling most discordantly, if to charge
the whole regiment, which stood idly
facing them.
And in truth, they did ride up so close
as to discharge a few arrow shots among
the lancers; this last insult, however,
was more than they could endure, and
perhaps it was rather the extremity of
apprehension which excited them at last
to act, as if in desperation of safety
should they continue inactive, than
anything of chivalry or courage.
Whatever might have been the cause,
after standing coolly to observe the rout
and massacre of their countrymen,
which they might undoubtedly have
prevented by a bold onslaught, they advanced
in line at a sharp trot, which
gradually increased into a hard gallop,
and then into a gallant running charge,
with bugle-note and battle-cry, and all
the pomp and splendor of a well ordered
cavalry attack.
Their gay uniforms shone gorgeously
under the bright autumnal sunbeams,
their long crimson plumes and the
blood-red banderols of their couched
lances flashed and fluttered in the wind,
and the very earth seemed to shake beneath
the stormy clatter of their horse
hoofs.
The heart of the young soldier
throbbed as if it would burst his bosom,
at the gallant sights and sounds that
accompanied the hurricane of charging
horse; and he muttered to himself,
with a doubtful smile, that were they
but one half as disciplined and trusty as
they were gorgeously equipped, and
brave in outward show they would be
dangerous opponents to encounter in
the field.
And, as it was, the savages, who probably
had never intended more than an
empty demonstration broke away into
separate parties, although they rode in
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one direction, and fled before the charge
of the regular horse; which, indeed,
they were wholly incapable of resisting,
not standing in the ratio of more than
one to fifteen or twenty Mexicans.
Still though they might, as Gordon
perceived at a glance, have easily ridden
clear away from their pursuers,
had they chosen to do so, being better
mounted, and riding much lighter than
the troopers, besides that acting independently
they might have dispersed
and so defied pursuit, they did not attempt
any thing of the kind. On the contrary,
they merely cantered their horses
along, barely keeping out of range of
the troopers' carabines, and at times
even halted, and shot an arrow or two
at the soldiers, one of whom was actually
slain, and several wounded by their
unerring missiles.
Provoked by their manœuvres, goaded
by the insults of the savages, and
their obscene and irritating gestures
the regiment still pressed forward, as
fast as they could without blowing their
horses, or disordering their ranks and
in something less than an hour from the
commencement of the skirmish had
passed the side of the hill from which
the young dragoon was observing them,
and were nearly a mile distant to the
south-westward of his encampment,
still hotly following the flying Camanches.
“Now if those savages be not drawing
the cavalry into an ambush,” said
Gordon quietly to the old soldier, who
stood at his elbow observing all that passed,
“then I am no judge of Indian artifice,
or Camanche warfare.”
“That is as sure as death, sir,” replied
the soldier, touching his cap;
“and if you'd be pleased to take a squint
through the glass, at that deep gulley,
to which they will expose their left
flank, if they advance two miles farther,
I guess you'll see what will make you
certain of it. Leastways I've conceited
more than once, as I've seen a man
on horseback rise up against the sky
above the verge of it.”
“Ha! is it so?” asked the young officer
quickly, in reply, catching the
telescope from the hand of the subordinate,
and adjusting it to his eye. “Aye!
by the Lord that lives!” he added, as
he gazed towards the spot indicated by
the trooper, “there are a hundred or
more of the red skins gathering there,
for a flight of arrows and a charge.—
There will be more sharp work anon.”
As he ceased speaking, while his eyes
were yet fixed on the distant ravine, a
sharp long whistle rose on the air behind
him, and made him turn his head suddenly,
when to his inexpressible delight
he saw the well known form of the Partisan,
mounted on his famous brown
horse, trotting as leisurely across the
scene of the late skirmish towards the
outlet of the little amphitheatre, from a
belt of forest land a short distance to the
northward of that where the savages
had issued, as if there was not an enemy
in sight.
And, in truth, although there were
five hundred at the smallest computation
in full view, within a couple of miles,
on the open champaign, there was no
real risk in what he did. For the Mexicans
were so earnestly engaged in the
pursuit of the savages, and so eager
were the Camanches on the success of
their stratagem, that not an eye or
thought was directed towards the solitary
horseman, who wended his way
calm, self-possessed, and slow, over the
corpses of the slaughtered soldiery, to
join his comrades in their hiding place.
Gordon responded instantly to the
signal of the Partisan by an answering
whistle; and, without pause or hesitation,
Pierre set spur to Emperor, cantered
briskly forward, and entering the
bed of the rivulet, rode into the small
amphitheatre at the very moment when
Arthur descended the hill to join him.
CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE.
The din of distant battle came surging
down the light wind, and he sharp
rattle of a running fire, mingled with
the yells and whoops of barbarous warfare,
announced as plainly as words
could have done, that the main force of
the Mexicans was now at issue with
the savages.
But not for that, not that they were
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yet in the midst of perilous adventure,
not that their chances of escape were
still slender and uncertain, was the welcome
of the stout Partisan cold or ungracious.
Far from it—for, as he came bounding
down the broken slopes of the hillock,
Gordon hailed, in his full, clear,
manly tones, fearful no longer of being
overheard by Camanche or Mexican.
“Julia, huzza! huzza! He is here—
come forth and greet him. The Partisan
is here already.”
And just as the highly bred brown
horse bore him up the low bank from the
rivulet's bed, she came out quickly from
the little tent, with a warm flush on her
soft cheeks, and a bright light in her
clear blue eye, and a fleet step and an
outstretched hand, which showed that
the joy she manifested at his coming
was from the heart, sincere and earnest.
“Oh!” she cried, “Major Delacroix,”
and her sweet low voice faltered
as she spoke, as if she were on the
point of bursting into tears, “how glad,
how very glad, I am to see you.”
“Too glad, I am afraid, dear lady,”
answered the gallant soldier, bowing
almost to the saddle bow—“too glad, I
am afraid; for your pleasure almost
looks as if you thought I had deserted
you.”
“Oh! no, indeed—indeed!” she answered,
clapping her hands together in
the intensity of her earnestness—“I
knew that you would die a thousand
deaths, before you would desert me—
before you would desert, I mean”—she
added with some slight embarrassment—
“any woman, in distress or danger.”
“You need not have modified your
first expression, lady,” replied the Partisan
quietly—“as for dying a thousand
deaths, I cannot say for that! but certainly
so far as risking the one life I do
possess, I would do that for you, at least,
right willingly. Desert any woman,
under any circumstances, I hope I never
should—but it must not be denied
that I, old, weather-beaten, and warworn
as I am, like the rest of us, feel the
effects of youth and grace and beauty
such as yours—to say nothing of your
high and gentle courage. I am afraid
if you were old and plain, dear lady,
though certainly we would not give
you up, without a word and a blow too,
to these savages, we should not serve
you with quite so much devotion.”
“I do not believe you,” she replied,
halflaughing, for the veteran forester
spoke so cheerfully and gaily, and
seemed so totally forgetful of the perils
which environed them, that Julia's confidence
was restored, and she felt relieved
of half her apprehensions, by the
return of the Partisan. “I do not believe
you; I am sure for the poorest
and plainest, and oldest hag that ever
wore the weeds, and pleaded the weakness
of woman, you would do or die as
devotedly, as for the brightest of the
sex. Do not deny it, if you would have
me think of you, as I am more than half
inclined to do, as a preux chevalier in
the midst of these degenerate days.”
Woman are quick, to a proverb, at
discovering the effects produced by
their charms upon the minds of men;
and that man must be a rare and extraordinary
monster, when true admiration
and real love, even if it be unreturned,
does not afford some gratification to
the object who has inspired it. No
true or generous woman, no woman, in
a word, who is deserving of the love of
an honorable man, will for a moment
trifle with a heart the sentiments of
which she perceives, yet feels herself
unable to return—none such will encourage
a passion which she knows
must be hopeless, or add to the bitter
sense of unrequited love the yet keener
sting of contempt or manifest dislike.
Still, as I have observed, even the
best and kindest hearts of the women
will derive pleasure from the sense of
their power on the minds of men; and
if the man be in any wise distinguished
for virtue, worth, wit, valor, and so
marked out above his fellows, she who
perceives herself the mistress of his
love, even if she cannot reciprocate it,
feeling herself ennobled by his homage,
and proud of the tribute to her beauty, will often, it is to be hoped—all unconsciously,
but oftener yet from half reckless
half inconsiderate coquetry, endeavor
to prolong his captivity, and to hold
him a willing slave in her soft bondage.
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Julia Gordon was a high-minded, artless,
innocent woman, if ever such an
one breathed the breath of life: but
still she was the woman! She loved
her young husband, the first choice of
her virgin heart, with all the intense
power of which her sensitive, enthusiastic,
ardent soul was capable. She
would have looked upon the slightest
wandering, even of a wayward fancy
toward another, as an inexpiable act of
infidelity and shame. She would have
named it, and named it rightly, infamy
and treason, and unwomanly wickedness,
to lead an honorable man to form
false hopes, or to encourage him to love
in vain; but still she was a beauty,
conscious of her charms—a gay, light-hearted,
happy child of impulse, accustomed
to be flattered and admired, to
be addressed with homage and devotion,
on all sides: and, therefore, though she
perceived at once that she had struck
and fascinated the wild Partisan at first
sight, and though she would not for the
universe intentionally have caused him a
single pang, she did unconsciously encourage
him, and lead him on to wilder
and more wandering fancies, than he had
ever entertained before.
Her manner was such that he could
not fail to see that she had read his
heart of hearts; and there was something
in her evident appreciation of his
high qualities, her decided confidence in
his honor, and her unconcealed admiration
of his chivalrous conduct, which
led him to suspect that she was not all
indifferent to his feelings.
Still there was nothing sensual or evil
in the most liberal imagination of the
Partisan: no thought of illicit, or improper
love, much less of voluptuous indulgence
had crossed the horizon of his
mind: had such a dream suggested itself
to him, he would have spurned it
with abhorrence; and the bare consciousness
of such a thought would
have prevented the possibility of its
recurrence.
As it was, he yielded for a time to
the soft and unwonted illusion, and he
did so with the more complete abandonment,
that it was, as we have seen,
many years since he had felt the influence
of feminine attractions, or tasted
the fascination of woman's society.
“You flatter me, fair lady,” he replied,
with a smile, as he dismounted
from his good horse; “and flattery
from such lips as yours were perilous,
indeed, to a younger man than I, and
to one less alienated from the hopes, the
wishes, the delights, of civilized society.
But let us go in to your tent,” he continued,
“and you shall bestow upon me
your hospitality to-day, in requital of
the poor meal I set before you on the
other side of the Bravo. To say the
truth, I am both hungry and weary—
and that is something for me to confess—
but I have eaten nothing since I left
you: nor quitted my saddle, except for
an hour this morning. That is it, my
good fellow,” he added, addressing a
dragoon who came forward to lead away
his charger, “rub him down well, and
water him, after a while, and feed him
with that forage you have been cutting;
and you would do well to feed your
own horses too, and hold yourselves in
readiness for a start. We will march
as soon as the sun sets. Where is your
other fellow, Gordon? I left three
with you. You have not lost another,
surely.”
“No; I thank God. He is on the
hill-top, yonder, among the chapparal.
I posted him there to keep a look out,
and as it is, the Mexicans nearly surprised
him. In truth, nothing saved
us, but that the savages had ridden directly
over our trail, so that they believe
us to have been taken by them,
and doubtless massacred.”
“As we should have been, doubtless,
had they struck our trail by daylight.
As it is, they have proved our safeguard
so far; and, if we can avoid them hereafter,
all will be well. I think, as yet,
they know nothing of us.”
“The fighting is not ended between
them and the lancers,” said Gordon,
listening intently to the distant uproar.
“Not yet,” replied the Partisan instantly.
“But the Camanches are getting
the worst of it.”
Gordon gazed upon him, half doubtful
whether he heard him aright; and
then exclaimed: “But that I knew
you, I should think you were speaking
at random.”
“Oh, no!” said the other, “I am
not. Do you not hear that the noise is
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more remote than it was? They are a
mile farther off, at least. The savages
are making a running fight of it. Hail
your sentinel, and he will tell you it is
so.”
“What ho! McLean,” shouted the
young dragoon. “Jump up, my man,
and tell us what you make of the fighting
yonder.”
The man rose immediately from the
bushwood, on the summit of the hill,
and saluted as he answered readily.
“I cannot make much out of it now,
sir. The Indians charged them on a
sudden, a while since, out of the great
ravine: and I thought for a moment
they would break the lancers. But
the Dons held out pretty stiffly, and
drove the savages. They all crossed
the ridge beyond, helter skelter, and
hand to hand; and I lost sight of them,
for ten minutes or so, while they were
down in the next bottom. But just before
you hailed me, they came into
sight again, as they rose over the next
swell, and the Camanches were riding
for their lives, and the troopers were
blazing at them, as fast as they could
load and fire. I can scarce hear the
carabines any longer, and there is not
a man in sight, or a horse either, except
those that will never ride or be ridden
any more.”
“You see,” said Pierre, coolly, “I
did not speak at random. But call him
down, and let them cook and dine, and
then saddle. The sooner we get under
way the better. Pardon us, dear lady,”
he added, turning to Julia, who had
been observing all that passed with singular
interest, and not without some
emotion; “these are not fitting subjects
for your ears; but your safety makes
it needful that we should speak of them.
Now, if you allow us admittance, we
will be your guests, for we must take
counsel, and it is fitting that you should
hear all, and advise with us.”
“Pray come in,” she replied unaffectedly,
“without any more words.—
We are so far indebted to you now, that
ceremony between us were worse than
idle. There,” she continued, as they
all three entered the narrow precincts
of the tent, “sit you down on that bearskin,
while I wait on you. We have
some of your own wine left, and some
cold venison. Arthur, bid one of the
men make some water hot, and we will
have coffee, in five minutes.”
The Partisan had not lived so many
years on the frontier, or associated so
long, as he had done, with the various
tribes of Indians, who still roam unconquered
over the vast wilds westward of
the Mississippi, without having contracted
something of their habits and modes
of thinking.
Among their habits, the most marked,
perhaps, was a sort of grave taciturnity,
when he was not very deeply moved,
or carried out of his usual line of conduct,
or demeanor, by any unwonted or
unnatural excitement—a reluctance to
communicate hastily anything which
had occurred, if not of immediate moment,
or in any event to dwell upon
his own actions or achievements.
And at this moment Pierre Delacroix's
conduct was singularly demonstrative
of this habit. Any other than he, or
one trained like him to peril, and the
prudence which is derived from peril,
would have entered open-mouthed, immediately
on rejoining his friends, upon
the recital of his own adventures, his
doings, and his sufferings, interlarded,
it is most probable, with no slight strains
of self glorification.
Far different from this, however, was
his course. He took the place assigned
to him by Julia, without saying a word,
and partook of the simple viands which
were set before him, in absolute silence,
except when the courtesies of the table
required him to reply to the lady.—
Once or twice, indeed, the young soldier
endeavored to draw him indirectly into
a recital of what had occurred to him
during the past night on the prairie;
but he had only elicited monosyllabic
answers, from which he derived no satisfaction.
When the repast was ended, and coffee
set before them, he produced his
pipe, and filling it with his favorite mixture
of tobacco, and bois gris, applied
himself for a few minutes to smoking
silently, Gordon following his example,
and Julia awaiting patiently the relation,
which, with the true woman's instinct,
she foresaw to be close at hand.
At length Pierre Delacroix shook out
the ashes from the bowl of his Indian
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pipe, replaced the implement in his
pouch, and raising his eyes calmly,
said in a quiet tone:
“Now then, Lieutenant, since we
are about to start, it were, perhaps, as
well that we should determine whither.”
“Whither,” exclaimed Gordon starting,
and looking very anxiously in the
old soldier's face. “I thought that had
been determined long ago. I thought
we were in full route for Taylor's camp
before Monterey.”
“It is impossible,” replied the Partisan.
“I did hope at the first to effect
it, but the hope was delusive—the thing
is a sheer impossibility. We are in
the midst of out-laying parties of regulars,
and what is worse yet of guerillas;
and worst of all, of these accursed
Camanches.”
“And to return?” asked Gordon.
“Is equally impossible.”
“In God's name, then, what can we
do? Is there nothing left to us men but
to die sword in hand, knowing that we
dead, she must fall into the hands of
these savages?”
“Had there been no other reason
than that, I should not now be talking
of it.”
“What then? For the love of
heaven, speak!” cried the young husband,
actually trembling with the violence
of his anxiety and apprehension.
“It is impossible for a party, at once
too strong to avoid discovery, and too
weak to resist an enemy, to push on to
Monterey, even if we had not a lady
with us. I could myself, run the
gauntlet thither, and arrive in safety,
though even that is doubtful. You, or
she, at least, must remain in concealment,
until I can bring you such succor
as will suffice to her safety.”
“Remain in concealment, here?”
“Not here exactly, nor yet very far
distant.”
“Can it be done?”
“I think it can, with safety—else
had I not named it.”
“And whence will you seek succor?”
“Whence God and the fortunee of
war shall send it. Perhaps not nigher
than the general's camp—perhaps I
may stumble on Jack Hays, or Walker,
or McCulloch, or Gillespie's rangers.
They are on the scout almost all the
time, either in the van or rear of the
army; and now I think it likely they
will be down hereaway, with the intent
to open our communications. God send
that they may!”
“God send it so, indeed!” replied
Arthur Gordon earnestly. “But what
has led you so completely to alter your
views and intentions?”
“That which I have seen with my
own eyes, or heard with my own ears,
last night.”
“And what may that have been?”
“Listen, I was awakened last night
a little while before the Camanches
passed you, by the sound of a scuffle
and a faint groan. Before I could get
on my feet, however, I had the pleasure
of seeing that scoundrel, whose life we
spared in the morning—and a d—d stupid
thing we did in sparing it—lead
his horse out of the circle and leap
on its back. There was no use in
awakening you, so I untethered Emperor
as quickly as I could, and out in
pursuit of him. For all the speed I
could make, he had got full a half mile
away on the open prairie before I was
in the saddle; but I cared little enough
for that, seeing that in a five miles race,
I knew well enough that I could make
up such a gap as that, and overhaul him
too without much trouble. But what
did vex me, and set me to thinking, was
that instead of making the best of his
way back over the ground we had traversed
in the morning, he struck off
here to the northwest, riding as straight
as if he had been following a beaten
track, without a sign of h sitation, or so
much as looking behind him.”
“That was strange,” said Gordon,
“what the deuce could it mean?”
“It meant clearly enough that he
knew he had friends nearer at hand
than Carrera's men in the rear, and
that he had no idea at all that he was
discovered by any of our party, much
less followed.”
“Ah! was it indeed so?”
“It is so indeed. I knew that so
soon as he turned his horse's head
northwestward. But I knew not where
his friends were, nor how many, and I
wanted to be sure of that. So I struck
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off still farther west than he, and kept
myself out of his sight among the timber,
and behind the chapparal. It is
true I had to go two miles to his one,
for I was riding round the circle across
which he was striking, but what of that?
Brown Emperor can take three strides
to his two, and stride twice as long as
his mustang's longest. Well, I kept
him in sight, and myself out of sight,
and well was it for me that I did so. I
soon found out whither he was bound,
and I was thinking of taking a straight
course for the rancho, at which I saw
he was aiming, when all at once, I
heard a yell in the forest, scarcely
three hundred yards ahead of me, and
before I had time to think, if thinking
would have done any good, out galloped
forty or fifty red skins from the
forest, and drove right across the open
ground right down upon our runaway.
He felt that he was lost, I think, as
soon as he saw them, for he made but
a very sorry race of it, wheeling and
turning to and fro, as if he knew not
whither to fly, and the consequence
was that they ran him down in less
than ten minutes, and that within less
than a hundred yards of the brake
which hid me. It I had just then had
ten rangers with me, armed with good
western rifles, they never would have
served him as they did, nor would one
of themselves have got off scot free.
But what could I do? I was but one
against fifty, and I knew not how soon
my own turn might come; so I had
only to stand by, and look on while
they—”
“Murdered him!” exclaimed Julia,
covering both her eyes with her fair
hands, “good god! how terrible!”
“Burnt him alive, lady,” said the
Partisan, coolly. “If they had only
killed him, I should have thought nothing
of it, for that I meant to do myself
within half an hour. But when
they tied him to the stake and heaped
the faggots round him, it did make my
blood boil, for though he was a Mexican,
a traitor, and a murderer, still he
was a white man, and after his own
fashion, I suppose, a christian. I levelled
my rifle two or three times, I believe,
and might have killed their great
war-chief, if I had dared. But to do
so could not have saved him, and would
have lost not only myself—that would
have been a matter of no consequence—
but you, beyond a doubt.”
“Burnt him alive!” exclaimed Julia,
whose hands had dropped from before
her eyes into her lap at the first
words of his reply, and who had sat
gazing him full in the face, speechless
with terror, and incapable of comprehending
what he said afterward.—
“Burnt him alive, and before your
eyes!”
“Before my eyes, lady! Not a
prayer, not a shriek, not a groan of the
wretched devil escaped my ears; and
the smell of his roasting flesh sickened
and almost choked me!” cried the Partisan,
now himself terribly affected,
and apparently fascinated by the very
horror of the scene, and unable to pass
over the shocking details. His eye
had a wild stare as he spoke, and the
big sweat drops rolled like rain from
his sunburnt brow, and his fingers
griped the hilt of his knife, as if they
would have embedded themselves in the
solid buck-horn, and his voice was
hoarse and husky. Once or twice in
his agony, he called upon my name, and
shrieked to me, for the love of the most
holy Virgin, to preserve him, although,
God help him, he knew not that I was
nigh at hand to hear him. As I hope
to live hereafter, it was all I could do
to hold myself from rushing out upon
them.”
“And why, why did you hold
back?” exclaimed Julia, wildly catching
him by the arm in the intensity of
her passion,” why did you not rush
out upon them?”
“I could but have died with him.”
“Then should you have died with
him!” she cried, scarce knowing what
she said—“Not to have done so, is not
like the man I have heard you called—
not like the man I took you for!”
“Hush, Julia, hush!” cried her
husband springing to his feet. “Be
silent, child, if you cannot speak reason—”
But Delacroix interrupted him, speaking
very slowly, and with an inexpressible
mournful intonation of voice.—
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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“Let her go on,” he said, “let her go
on, Arthur Gordon. I am used to it,
used to it for years, for a life—used to
be misunderstood and misrepresented.
Let her go on! It was for her sake I
did it—and most meet it is that she
should repay me for it with ingratitude.
Who ever served or loved a woman
and met other guerdon for his services?
I was a fool, I am a fool, but I did not
expect this at her hands.”
He hung down his bold head as he
spoke, and one or two big tears, the
first that he had shed in years, rolled
down his swarthy cheeks, and fell on
his hard hands; and he sat staring at
them as they fell, as if he knew not
what they were, or what ailed him.
“My God!” exclaimed Gordon, passionately,
“I believe you are bent on
driving me mad, Julia! By heaven, I
believe you are turned idiot!”
“We are all idiots together, I say!”
exclaimed the tough old soldier, dashing
away the last tear-drop from his clear
gray eye with the back of his hand, and
starting to his feet abruptly. “All
idiots together, to be telling idle tales,
and listening to them here, when we
should be up and doing. Bid your
men strike the tent, and pack just what
baggage your lady cannot spare. Pack
it on the dragoon horse, whose saddle is
left empty by that murderer's deed,
who has dearly rued it. The rest with
the tent and pontoon must be abandoned,
and the mules that bore them must be
slain. Let them hide everything in the
chapparal, the sun will have set within
an hour. Meanwhile, I will go forth
and see that the coast is clear.”
“But whither, whither are you about
to lead us?” enquired Gordon, anxiously.
“If you trust me, you will follow
me, Lieutenant, whithersoever I lead
you. If not, you will not follow me at
all; for if it be my intent to deceive
you, I can do so by words as well as
by actions. It is for you to decide. I
have no time to make many words, nor
is it my wont to do so. I swear to save
yourself and your wife from all the
dangers that beset you, if I can. If I
cannot, I intend to die with, or for you,
just which you please to call it, although
I did disappoint your lady by not dying
as she would have had me do, very sentimentally
in company with a vile murderer
and traitor, to whom my life or
death could do no earthly good.”
“Oh! Major Delacroix!” exclaimed
Julia, who had now recovered from her
bewilderment, and was sensible of the
error she had committed, “you are offended,
you are angry with me, and
justly—I have been most ungrateful.”
“Not angry, lady, not offended. A
man cannot be angry with such an one
as you, do what you will with him. I
am disappointed, perhaps hurt, but certainly
neither angry nor offended.”
“You must forgive me!” she exclaimed,
springing passionately forward,
and catching his hand in both her
own, “you must, you must forgive me!
You must remember that I am but a
weak girl, unused to hear of horrors
such as you related—horrors, God help
me! which may befall me next—horrors
which are strong enough, it seems to
me, to bewilder the mind of strong,
brave men, and which have half maddened
me. I knew not then, I know not
even now what it was I said—will you
but forgive me?”
“Surely I would, had I anything to
forgive, sweet lady,” he replied with a
grave, sad smile. “But I have nothing,
unless it be,” he added with a
low sigh, “my own folly. But a truce
to this, we have indeed no time for parleying.
Will you trust me, and follow
me? as we ride onward I will tell
you whither.”
“To the world's end!” answered the
beautiful girl, clasping her hands, and
blushing crimson with the violence of
her own emotions. “To the world's
end, if you will not forgive me.”
“And you, Lieutenant?” he added,
quickly turning a keen glance to the
face of the young dragoon. “And will
you trust and follow me?”
“I do not know why you should
press the question,” replied Arthur,
a little sharply. “No one, so far as I
know, has distrusted you; and, as for
following you, we never thought of doing
aught else. You frighten a young,
timid girl out of her senses with a tale of
terror, and then take offence at her bewildered
and romantic folly—you do
not know the nature of women,
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
Partisan,” he continued, becoming aware
that he was carrying it with rather too
high a hand to suit the temperament of
his auditor, and desirous of turning the
thing into a jest, “and are not aware
that they quarrel the most with those
whom they like the best.”
“I no not know their nature, as you
say,” returned the Partisan, “nor am I
sure that it were for my happiness to
learn it any farther. At all events, I
have not the time, nor am very likely to
have the opportunity of doing so—
Now, will you be so kind as to issue
your orders to your men, and you,
madam, to make your preparations for
a ride, which may extend through the
night until daybreak to-morrow.”
He spoke so decidedly that there was
no excuse for attempting to prolong the
conversation, and Gordon left the little
tent immediately, in order to give his
directions, while the Partisan litted his
rifle from the ground where he had deposited
it on entering, and turned to follow
the young officer without saying
another word.
But ere he had reached the entrance,
Julia, who had been standing with
downcast eyes, and a strange expression,
half sad, half passionate on her
beautiful features, sprang forward to intercept
him, and again caught him by
the arm.
“What have I done?” she cried,
passionately “what have I done, that
you thus spurn me, thus despise me?”
“I, lady!” and he gazed at her in
blank astonishment, “I spurn, I despise
you!”
“Yes, yes! miserable me! and I
deserve it all, aye, more than all, oh
God! oh, God! I shall go mad! what
shall I do to win your forgiveness?”
“I have said, madam,” he replied,
mastering himself, and retaining his self-composure
with a mighty effort, “that
I had nothing to forgive. But now it
is my turn to ask,” and his voice assumed
a deeper tone of feeling, and his
whole manner showed an intenser
meaning, “will you spare me? You
know what I mean, lady—all women
know their power, and, I suppose, all
abuse it. But, as I have endeavored to
serve you truly, as I intend to do to the
end, as I am resolved to die for you,
will you spare me, I say? Spare me
my self-respect, my consciousness of
right, my manhood, my repose of soul,
my honor. If you will, lady, I forgive,
I bless you. If not—if not, tremble,
I say, tremble, not at the thought
of my vengeance, but of your own remorse.
Think of this, lady, and fare
you well. We speak no more alone
together, no more, for ever.”
And he flung her hand, which he
had held tightly clasped in his own
while he spoke, away from him, half
contemptuously, half indignantly; turned
on his heel, and left her.
She gazed on him for a moment wistfully,
and then sank down upon the
bearskin, on which he had been sitting,
buried her face in the fur, and wept
bitterly, as might be seen from the convulsive
sobs which shook her whole
frame, as she lay prostrate in her desperate
sorrow.
A woman's heart is a strange thing,
and wo be to him who plays with, or
perverts it.
Meanwhile, the Partisan went forth
and reconnoitred the plain, and assured
himself that the Camanches and their
pursuers were indeed out of the range
of sound or sight, having gone off in a
direction that would carry them, he was
well assured, far from the line in which
he proposed to travel.
Within an hour, he returned to the
camp, which had been the scene of so
much mental suffering and excitement
to all the parties who had passed the last
weary long hours within its guarded
precinets. But when he did return, he
had fully mastered his composure, for
he now fully understood his own feelings,
and perceived the peril of indulging
them. And he found all his
comrades collected and self possessed,
at least, in appearance, and prepared to
set forth at a moment's notice.
The tent was no longer visible, nor
any of that superfluous baggage which
had been brought along, to diminish as
much as possible the hardships of the
lady during her hard and dangerous
journey. All had been either hidden
so closely as to avoid any casual observation,
or had been destroyed altogether.
The horse of the unhappy sergeant
had been equipped instead of his
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own demipique, with the pack-saddle of
the poor predestined mule, and stood,
seemingly conscious of his degradation,
loaded with such necessary baggage as
could in no way be dispensed with.—
Gordon and his men, all fully armed
and accoutred, were at their charger's
heads, and Julia, pale as marble, and
with a melancholy and languid expression,
which rendered her if possible
more beautiful than ever, was already
seated on her high-blooded jennet.
The appearance of the Partisan, and
the first quick gesture of his hand, gave
the signal; and all the men vaulted at
once into their saddles.
“All is safe!” he exclaimed, cheer
fully. “To horse, to horse, and away!”
And with the word, he laid his hand
on the pummel of the brown charger's
demipique, and, without setting his foot
into the stirrup, sprang at one bound to
his back.
Then, after saying a few words in a
low voice to Arthur, who communicated
them in turn to one of the dragoons, he
bowed to the lady, saying, “And now,
if you are ready, we will proceed at
once,” and rode at an easy gait out of
the gorge, followed by all the party.
Gordon and Julia came immediately
behind him, and were, in their turn, followed
by a trooper leading the loaded
pack horse. The newly-appointed sergeant
remained behind with the other
dragoon and the mules, until the remainder
of the party had cleared the defile
and issued on the open plain, over which
the declining sun was pouring a flood of
crimson light, from beneath a mass of
dark leaden clouds, the lower edge of
which alone was fringed with gloomy
fire, while all above was dark and black
as night.
It was an ominous and lurid gleam
which deluged the wide plains, and
turned the groves and forests, robed as
they were in hazy mist, into masses that
vied, in hue and brilliancy, with ore
liquid from the furnace; and the shadow
projected upward, from the heavy layer
of storm cloud which skirted all the horizon
to the south-westward, over the
darkened firmament, rendered the effect
of the scene yet more threatening and
dismal.
The heart of Julia sank as she gazed
around; and she felt that the least addition
to the sense of dread and half superstitious
awe which now beset her, would
be too much for her powers of endurance.
Yet, while she thought thus,
another item was added—it was the
sharp and sudden crack of two rifles,
discharged almost simultaneously in the
small amphitheatre from which they had
just departed.
She started in her saddle as if she had
received a blow, and would have fallen
from her seat, had not her husband
thrown his powerful arm around her, and
supported her frame on the back of her
palfrey.
“It is nothing,” he whispered, “dearest
love. It is nothing, upon my honor.
I should have told you, had I imagined
that it would so alarm you.”
“But what was it, Arthur? Oh! you
are deceiving me again. I am sure you
are deceiving me. Let me know the
worst, I implore you, at once, and I will
try to bear it.”
“Nay, Julia, I have told you; it is
nothing only the poor mules which we
were compelled to shoot, as we could not
bring them with us, and dared not leave
them to follow, and by following betray
us.”
“More blood!” cried Julia, bursting
into a paroxysm of tears: “more blood!
my God! my God! when will this have
an end?”
“You should have thought of that,
Julia,” replied the young soldier, sharply
and bitterly, “before you married a
soldier. That done, such thoughts are
too late.”
“Alas! alas! they are, indeed, too
late!”
“And do you cry alas! for that, false
girl?” exclaimed Gordon, in so loud a
tone that his words reached the ears
of the Partisan, who instantly reined
back his horse, and laying his hand
kindly on the young man's arm, said in
a low voice—
“Oh! peace, peace, for shame! Consider
what she has borne, what she has
yet to bear, and all for you.”
Gordon was vexed, and raised his
head proudly, with a bitter reply on his
tongue; but ere he could utter it, the
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Partisan had fallen yet farther back,
and was ordering the two dragoons who
had just galloped up from the rear.—
After directing the private to fall in beside
him who led the baggage horse,
and sending the sergeant forward two
hundred yards, to lead the party on a
course which he indicated, he rode up
on the other side of the lady, and addressed
her as lightly and cheerfully as
if nothing had happened to disturb their
feelings, and no dangers were around
them.
“And now, fair lady,” he began, “if
you have any portion of what men call
your sexes curiosity,—although, I dare
say, if the truth were known, we
men are just as curious—you must be
dying to know whither I am going to
conduct you, with all this mystery.”
“I wish it were to my grave,” she
answered, raising her mild, soft eyes to
meet his. “I never shall be happy
more, till I lie in it.”
“Nay, lady, speak not thus,” returned
the veteran, warmly. “I must
not hear you speak thus, even lightly.
Death, at the best, is a dread mystery;
and if it be true, that as the tree falls
so shall it lie, a very fearful and appalling
termination. In God's good time,
we must all come to that; to His good
wisdom, therefore, let us leave it.—
And, oh, by no levity or petulance of
ours, let us call down His anger on our
heads! But, I assure you, it is to no
gloomy place, no fearful or dark
abiding-place, that I hope to conduct
you, but to a sort of fairy bower, inhabited,”
he added, assuming a tone of
gaiety which he perhaps scarcely felt,
“by what I thought, till I met your blue
eyes, Mistress Gordon, the loveliest woman,
I e'er looked upon.”
Despite herself, Julia Gordon was
interested and amused, and yielding
womanlike to the immediate impulse,
she cried: “what! a fairy bower, and
a fair woman, in this howling wilderness!”
“Aye, lady even so! and thereby
hangs a tale, which, as you will be
thrown, I think, upon her hospitality,
and as it may beguile the tediousness of
our night-march, I will relate to you,
if you choose to hear it.”
“Oh! tell it by all means, Partisan,”
cried Gordon, eager to atone for his
late petulance, and to divert his wife's
apprehension; “I hope it is a love
tale.”
“Cato's a proper person!” answered
Delacroix, laughing. “You see I can
quote, Lieutenant. But here goes my
story.”
CHAPTER XI. THE FRONTIERMAN'S TALE.
At the moment in which the Partisan
commenced his tale, the sun was in the
very act of setting, and the party was
entering the great belt of forest-land,
which has been described as bounding
the view to the westward. This forest
was a vast extent of rolling land, rising
gradually into hills, as it receded from
the river, covered with huge timber
trees, beneath which the underwood
grew dense and luxuriant. The spot
at which they entered it, narrowing by
degrees, as they advanced, into a narrow
winding wood path, not many yards
in whidth where it was broadest, and in
places so straight that but one horse could
go abreast. It was already very dark,
even upon the open plain, but here the
last faint glimmer of the twilight skies
was intercepted by the think foliage.
The night air was, however, delicate
and balmy, and thanks to the friendly
darkness of the night, no danger was to
be apprehended for the present.
Such were the circumstances under
which the old forester began his recital
of events, which, though they had occurred
long before he even knew the
existence of his fellow-travellers, were
now like to affect them nearly, and
which therefore possessed a strange interest
to their minds.
“It was a little better than a year
ago,” he began, “that I first visited this
part of the country, which I now know—
every pass, glen, and pond and rivulet
of it—as if it were my own garden.
All then was violence, and fierce irregular
strife, and vengeful indiscriminate
warfare and confusion. Our army small
in numbers, but strong in discipline, and
spirit, well officered, and confident of its
own powers, lay as yet at Point Isabel,
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
waiting for the arrival of reinforcements,
and the means of transportation, in order
to take the initiative in earnest. All the
fighting that had been done as yet, had
been done by the rangers, and the Partisan
Texan troopers, who mindful of
the strict discipline and stern subordination
required in regular warfare, did
battle pretty much, as it is said, on their
own hook; and, to speak the truth, had
scarcely learned as yet to temper the
soldier's ardor with the Christian's
mercy.
“It is true, there was much, it not
to excuse, at least to palliate their thirst
for vengeance. Few of them but had
lost some dear relation, or beloved friend,
in the savage raids and forays of the
Mexicans. Many had returned from
expeditions taken in defence of what
they believed to be their right, their liberties,
and their country, only to find
their homes a heap of blood quenched
ashes—only to learn that their wives,
their daughters, all that men hold best
and dearest, had undergone the worst
extremities of outrage, at the hands of
their ruthless enemies, and had rejoiced
in death itself as an escape from suffering,
from dishonor, less tolerable than
the cruelest of tortures.
“I was alone on this good horse which
I now ride, and armed as you now see
me. For then, as now, I scarce can
tell you why it suited my temper best
to ride alone in search of adventure;
and, though at times I would join this
or that band of rangers, when on some
actual service which promised excitement
and the chance of action, I for the
most part scouted by myself.
“On this occasion, however, I had a
special duty to perform, being charged
with despatches from the general to the
chief of the band, which I will not name,
nor otherwise designate, except as being
ever the most daring and successful in
the onslaught, although too often the most
merciless in the moment of victory.”
“I said that I would not name him,
Gordon Nor will I. Perhaps he had
wrongst avenge on these Mexicans,
which justified him in his own eyes, if
not in ours—which turned his blood to
flame, and from the very softness of his
natural heart distilled the bitterest venom.
At all events, he was as you have
said, a gallant soldier, as ever set foot
in stirrup and he died in his duty, gallantly,
within a lance's length of my
sword arm, covering the retreat of others,
when all was lost but honor. Peace to
his ashes, and forgiveness to his sins!
for which of us is sinless? I knew him
when he would have moved aside rather
than tread upon a worm, so soft and
tender was his heart—I knew him again,
when neither youth nor beauty, neither
sex nor gray hairs would bend him from
his ruthless vengeance. Circumstances!
crcumstances! ave! It is circumstance
after all, that makes saints or savages,
monsters or martyrs, of us all! We
will speak of him no more, Lieutenant,
except as I must tell my tale.”
“Pardon my interruption and proceed,”
said Gordon. “We are most
interested in your narrative already.
But what does the fellow want? He has
fallen back upon us.”
And as he spoke, the sergeant who
had been riding in advance, fell back
upon the party, and reined up his horse.
“The road forks into two, Major,”
he said, saluting as he addressed the
Partisan, “at a hundred yards hence.
The right hand path, I fancy, is the one,
by what you told me of the route; but
it is very deep and miry, and seems to
end in a wet morass. Which must I
take, sir?”
“The right hand path. It is not a
morass, but a shallow lakelet or lagoon
with a good hard bottom; it will not
wet your girths Sergeant. But halt,
when you reach the brink of it, and I
will guide you through, or you may
chance to lose the direction. Well, my
friends,” he continued, “I was, as I said,
bearing despatches from the General to
this chief, and he bade me lose no time
in overhauling him. He knew that the
band had set out to surprise a rancho
here-away; in which it was supposed
that a guerilla force was organizing,
and that arms were concealed; and he
thought, I fancy, that they would do
their work too summarily and too fiercely.
He did not tell me so in words, but
he ordered me to overtake them, and
gave me authority to supersede the officer,
we spoke of, as indeed I outranked
him, and to take command of the party.
I did not altogether like the duty;
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
for, as you may have gathered from my
words, although I did not like his deeds—
indeed I might say I abhorred them—I
had some sympathies for the man; had
passed through troublous times and hard
trials by his side; and indeed owed my
life to him once or twice, as perhaps he
owed his to me. I did not, therefore,
wish to supersede him, or wound his
feelings. I was pretty sure that a quarrel
would come of it; and though I did
not care a straw for the quarrel itself,
I did not fancy quarreling with so old
a comrade. But what of that? I had my
orders, and had no choice but to obey
them.”
“Well, it was a lovely summer's
evening, as ever shone out of heaven,
when I passed through this belt of forest;
not exactly here, or in this direction,
for I came in farther to the south-eastward,
and approached the clearing
which surrounds the plantation, whither
we now are bound. The soft air was
playing, much as it is now, through the
tree-tops; but it was then the very
flush of summer and all the woods were
ablaze with beautiful flowers, and odorous
with innumerable perfumes, and
alive with many colored birds, filling
the forest with their discordant cries or
sweet melodies. It had been a very
hot day, but the evening dews were
falling soft and gentle, and the young
moon was riding high above the tree-tops,
with all her silver stars about her
in the far deep blue sky, though still
the lingering rays of the departed sun
were visible half way towards the zenith
in the west. As yet, it was neither day
nor night. Another hour and every
bird would be tranquil on its rost, every
beast would have sought its den—
but now, it was truly a magic time,filled
with all that is sweetest and most tranquil
of the day, all that is gladdest and
least sober of the night.
“I was moved differently from my wont,
and noticed and felt the influences of
the reason and the hour, as I think I never
noticed them before; for I am not
much of a dreamer, nor greatly given
to romance, being, as you know, rather
a man of action; when suddenly, as I
rode along, following the track of the
horse hoofs, which I could easily distinguish
in the mossy greensward, and
judging by many certain indications that
I could not now be far behind them,
though I heard nothing to denote their
vicinity; when suddenly—I say, I
caught the distant sounds of merriment
and revelry; the light cadences of the
guitar, the merry laugh of girls, the
deep rich voices of male singers, in the
harmonious Spanish tongue, and all the
glee and anxiety of a fandango.
“I felt a momentary sense of pleasure,
for I knew that I was in time
which I had feared might not be the
case; and that the attack, which it was
my mission to prevent or at least to render
bloodless, had not as yet taken
place. The next instant a sudden
doubt, a great fear fell upon me. How
could it be that I should be so close to
the rancho, and the band, of which I
was in pursuit, yet closer, but unseen,
unheard, and unsuspected? I
knew that not a moment must be lost.
That even now the rangers must be
stealing with ready arms upon their
victims; that even now the doom of the
gay lancers must be sealed, unless my
presence should arrest it. I gave my
good horse the spur, and throwing the
rein upon his neck, gallopped at the top
of his speed along the intricate and mazy
wood-track.
“Never, in all my life, did I spur so
hard; and never did a road seem so
long, or so devious; nor was this the
effect of imagination only; for, as I
have since ascertained by actual inspection,
although the distance, as the
bird flies from the spot, where I first,
heard the music, to the rancho whence
it proceeded, is but a short mile, the
road by which alone you can reach it,
measures three at the least, winding to
and fro to avoid pathless brakes and
deep barrancas, and is exceeding deep
and miry.
“The sound of my horse's tramp,
splashing through the deep clay was already
heard by the lancers, and heard
alas! by their ambushed foes, whom I
fear it spurred to accelerated action;
when suddenly from the wood to my
left, the shrill blast of the bugle rose
piereingly upon the night air, and was
answered by a second at a little distance.
There was an instant's pause,
breathless and awful as the lull that
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precedes the burst of a thunderstorm;
and then a long loud shout burst out on
all sides, and the quick running rattle of
a hundred rifle shots fired in quick succession.
God! what a shriek succeeded!
And then the clash of blades, and
the blasphemies and yells of the charging
Texans, and the deep oaths and
dying groans of the slaughtered Spaniards,
and the howling of hounds and
mastiffs, and, above all, piercing my
very brain, the maddening screams of
women, pealed up in horrid dissonance
to the peaceful heavens; which, in a
moment afterwards were crimsoned
with the glare of the rushing flames,
making the twilight scenery of the calm
forest lurid and ruddy as the fabulous
groves of hell.”
“Halt! halt! you are at the water's
edge,” cried the voice of the advanced
dragoon, whom they could now scarce
see, though he was but a few paces
from them. For so deep was the gloom
of the woodland now, that had not the
path by which they travelled been
walled in, as it were, by the impenetrable
thickets of the trackless chapparal,
it would have been impossible for them
to follow its direction.
“Oh! do not interrupt your tale,”
cried Julia. “Finish it, will you not?
before we cross this terrible black looking
water.”
“I must not do so, lady,” replied the
deep tones of the Partisan.” This terrible
black looking water, which, by
the way, under a noonday sky is a
beautiful blue mirror as ever reflected
beauty's face when brightest—this water,
I say, once traversed, and the little
belt of thicket which borders it, we shall
be in the open woods, and must halt
there until the moon shall rise to light
us on our onward way. That will not
be for an hour or two; and as we have
made better progress than I hoped or
expected, and as we have passed unharmed
one of our greatest points of
danger, we will make a pause of an
hour to rest ourselves and our beasts,
and will light a brand of fire to cheer
us. There is no danger I assure you,
if you will let me lead your jennet by
the rein. Gordon, keep close to your
lady on the right; and you, my men,
follow closely upon our heels, turning
neither to the bridle nor to the sword
hand. It is a strange place this, though
perfectly safe to one who knows it. A
ridge of pure white gravel, some ten
yards wide, runs right across the lagoon
at this point, not above three feet under
water; while, everywhere else, the
bottom is deep black mud at two or
three fathom. I could ride it, however,
with my eyes blindfolded.”
“I hope so,” Gordon answered,
forcing a laugh, “for if you cannot,
our chance, I think is but a slight one.
The darkness of the night, I fancy,
would prove a most efficient bandage
for the eyes of any ordinary man.”
“Not for mine, Lieutenant,” answered
the Partisan. “I am a sort of
owl, I believe; for I sometimes imagine
I can see better by night than I can by
day. At all events, I can discern the
gap distinctly by which the path pierces
the brake on the farther shore, and I
can mark the glimmering bark of an old
dead tree on the left hand of it,”
“You must indeed have the eyes of
an owl,” said the young soldier. “For
I can distinguish nothing, not even the
forest beyond. It seems to me, that the
lake recedes into endless distance, and
is veiled in impenetrable gloom.”
“When you have ridden as many
leagues by night as I have, you will
see clearer. But come let us enter it.
Indeed, lady, there is no danger, though
you were better gather up the skirt of
your long dress, lest it get splashed by
the water.”
And without farther words, he took
the bridle of her jennet in his right hand
and led it down into the water, she sitting
perfectly passive, and encouraged
by the confidence of his manner, so as
to fear no danger.
In fact, as he said, the water was
shallow; nowhere exceeding three feet
in depth, and in many places scarce
wetting the fet-locks of the horses. Everywhere
the bottom was hard, and the
footing perfectly secure, and they had
already traversed above two thirds of
the whole distance, so that even Julia
could now distinguish the fringed bank
and the spectral-looking weather-bleached
tree, which marked the landing
place, when suddenly two or three
heavy plunges were heard in the deep
water, on either side of them, and as
many long lines of dim phosphoric light
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were seen rippling the dark surface of
the pool, and advancing rapidly towards
them.
“Great God! what are those?” cried
Julia, terrified now beyond all comprehension.
And at the same instant, the clear
voice of the Pardsan rose trumpetlike
above the stillness of the night, which
had been broken only by the dashing
of the horse's hoofs in the shallow water.
“Ride! ride!” he shouted; ride for
your lives I say.” And, as he spoke, he
drove the spurs rowel deep into his own
horse's sides, and lifting Julia's palfrey,
with a light but powerful hand, he forced
them both at once from a walk into a
full gallop.
The foam and spray were driven
high in the air, for three or four bounds
of their high mettled beasts, and the
riders were drenched from head to foot
with the water churned up by the rapid
hoofs. But happily it was but three or
four bounds; and the whole party stood
a moment after the alarm was given,
in safety on the farther bank, just as
three monstrous alligators, for such were
their latest enemies, shot fiercely up to
the very shore, in pursuit of their hardly
escaped prey.
The next instant, a wild melancholy
thrice repeated cry, Hoo! hoo! hoo!
rose from the thicket close before them,
making the blood run cold in Julia's
veins.
“Merciful heaven!” she exclaimed,
“we are beset on all sides!”
“And, almost fainting, she would
have fallen from her horse, had not
Pierre caught her in his arms.
“Dismount,” he cried. “Dismount,
Gordon, she has fainted,” and as he
spoke he placed her gently in her husband's
arms. “Bring her this way! this
way! we shall be on the high ground
in a minute. Look to the horses, lads;
and strike a light, one of you. There
are flint, steel and tinder in the pouch
by my holsters. Why it was nothing
but a Congar. Who would have thought
she would have been so frightened at
the cry of a Congar?”
“She has gone through enough to-day
to kill twenty women with terror,” returned
Gordon, very anxiously. “God
only grant that this has not killed her.
She has no pulse, that I can feel, at all,
and her heart is as still as death.”
“No! no!” cried the Partisan. “No!
no! do not fear, we will have some
fire in the twinkling of an eye; and all
will be right. Here we are—wrap her
in my blanket; and chafe her hands;
she will come too, in a minute.”
In a very short time, the formidable
western axe was brought into play, and
dry wood was felled and split in sufficient
quantities to build an ample fire.
The genial warmth which was diffused
by this, and the sedulous attentions
which were bestowed on her, soon restored
Julia Gordon to her senses; and,
with that buoyancy of spirits peculiar to
persons of her excitable and impulsive
temperament, so soon as she returned to
her consciousness, she recovered all her
wonted elasticity of mind, and brilliancy
of manner.
After some short and hurried conversation
concerning the danger which
they had just escaped from the hideous
alligators, and the habits as well of that
loathsome reptile as of the slick and
glossy congar, whose cry had been the
immediate cause of alarm, which, acting
on Julia's over-wrought spirits and
over-fatigued frame, had produced her
fainting fit, the thoughts of all the party
returned to the narrative of the Partisan.
Both Julia and Gordon felt sure that
their prospects of present safety and
future escape were, by some means or
other, connected with the persons of that
narrative; and, with the feverish and
nervous irritation which urges men, in
times of immediate danger and despondency,
to seek how they may penetrate
the secrets of futurity, they now eagerly
pressed Delacroix to resume his recital
at the point where it had been interrupted.
“I think,” he replied at first to their
solicitations, “that it were wiser in you,
by far, to endeavor to get some rest, if
it were but an hour. The night is as
yet but little spent; and, so soon as the
moon rises, we must again be in the
saddle. There may be danger again, I
would warn you; and danger of a nature
which, should your fortitude give
way as it did but now, could not be
avoided; and whether there be danger
or no, there will be at least extreme fatigue.”
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“Oh, no!” said Julia, earnestly. “It
is impossible: I cannot sleep. Oceans
of laudanum could not make me sleep
to-night, I am so fearfully excited.
Should I lie down and attempt to court
sleep, my own thoughts would lash me
into madness. But it is selfishness in
me to hinder you from rest. Let me
not influence you, I entreat. I pray
you, Partisan, Gordon, I command you,
lie down in your cloaks and sleep. I
will sit and watch by the fire: I assure
you I am not in the least afraid. See,
the men are already sound asleep, as if
there were no danger within miles.”
“They have no responsibility,” answered
the Partisan: “so soon as the
horses were securely tethered, and the
fire kindled, their duties were ended. I
told them I required no sentinel; and,
used to act ever under orders, they have
almost forgotten how to think—perhaps,
happier so. For us—I can speak for
Gordon as for myself—the necessity of
exerting every faculty on my part, to
ensure your safety, and deep anxiety on
his part, must, at all events, hold us
watchers until such time, at least, as we
can see you in temporary safety. If,
therefore, you are not inclined to sleep,
I may as well kill time by my poor
story, as let it lag along at its own weary
pace.”
“Go on, I pray you. We are quite
comfortable here, and quite safe, I fancy;
and I am dying to hear what happened
next.”
“I will resume the thread then,
where I broke it off abruptly. When I
heard that tremendous uproar, and saw
the outburst of that furious conflagration,
I spurred my horse the faster, and
at last, issuing from the forest, came
upon such a scene of horror, blood, and
devastation, as I trust it may never be
my fate to look upon again.
“The raneho or country dwelling-house
which had been attacked, was of
unusually large dimensions, consisting
of many buildings, with barns, stables,
cattle-folds, and out-houses of every
kind, which are the necessary appendages
to the residence of a great proprietor.
All these were built of the
usual sun-dried brick, thatched with
straw, and to all, as I thought at the first
glance, the torch had been applied indiscriminately.
“The main building—a large, low,
one-story house, adorned with wide,
rustic porticos, and surrounded by green
lawns and luxuriant gardens—was already
wrapt in flames, which burst out
in broad sheets from every door and
window.
“The gay gardens were all trampled
down and wasted, the greensward literally
flooded with gore, and piled with
the bodies of men, women, nay, even
children—some dead already, some
writhing in the death-pang, all slaughtered
ruthlessly and almost unresisting,
in the midst of harmless relaxation and
light-hearted revelry. Most of these
had been destroyed by the first fatal
volley poured in upon them by the ambushed
enemy, who had stolen upon
their sports unsuspected. The women,
all of whom were young, and many
rarely beautiful, were clad in their Gala
dresses, with bare necks and bare arms,
and high combs and floating veils, and
garlands in their beautiful black hair.
The men, a few of whom had been
spared long enough to draw their swords
in a vain attempt at resistance, were
evidently thinking of anything but war,
when surprised by the exterminating
thunder of the western rifle. Broken
guitars and ladies' fans, and tables covered
with refreshments and adorned
with flowers, lay scattered here and
there, overturned and broken, among
the sadder relics of maimed and massacred
humanity. Many large dogs,
some the superb and faithful sheep-dogs
of the famous Mexican breed, lay slain
beside their masters, faithful even to
death.
“But of the ruthless murderers—for
even I can call them by no other name—
not one had fallen. On the other
side of the great court-yard, barns and
stables were blazing; and the appalling
yells and cries which proceeded from
them, told how the poor domestic animals
were perishing in agony within
those fire-girdled walls. For a moment,
I looked around bewildered.
There was not one living, conscious
being, of whom I could ask a question,
or learn whither had swept the bloody
tide of attack and flight; for there were
no sounds of resistance, nor even of terror
and havoc, any longer, if it were
not the roaring of the devastating
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conflagration, and the appalling screams
and bellowings of the tortured horses
and oxen.
“Suddenly, a pistol shot or two startled
me, followed by a shout and the
clashing of swords from a distant quarter
of the garden, sheltered by a rich
grove of orange trees, in full bloom, and
other shrubs of rare odoriferousness and
beauty.
“I was still mounted, and with the
speed of light I galloped toward the spot
whence those sole sounds of human life
proceeded. Across the smoothly-shaven
lawns and luxuriant flower-beds, I drove
my charger recklessly, and the torn
limbs and shattered stems of the beautiful
and fragrant shrubs, told the fierce
speed with which I forced my way
through them. I came up! I was yet
in time! It was a small low building
of two rooms only, the inmost of which
had windows reaching to the ground,
secured with jalousies, and perfectly
embowered by the rich leaves and
vagrant tendrils of a hundred climbing
parasites.
“And this lone bower, evidently the
abode of some soft Spanish beauty, was
now the last citadel of the hapless inhabitants,
mercilessly attacked and desperately
defended. It was fortunate for
those within it, that the Texans had discovered
it from the court-yard, with
which it communicated only by one
door in a massive wall of stone—all its
windows opening into the secluded
quarter of the garden, which they had
not as yet discovered.
“From the court-yard, separated from
the garden in which I stood by the high
and massive wall I have named, the
shouts and rush of armed men came
clearly to my ears; and, by the English
tongue, the wild oaths, and the bitter
denunciating, I readily perceived that it
was the band of whom I was in pursuit,
and that they were forcing their way
into the building, in despite of all opposition.
Still it was evident to me, by
the silence which prevailed in the inner
room—opposite to the casements of
which I stood—that this last sanctum
was yet unforced, though the rapid discharge
of pistol and rifle shots, and the
clash of rapier and bowie-knife at the
door, announced that its security was
menaced, and could not certainly be
maintained many minutes longer.
“There was not a second to be lost.
Springing down from my horse, with
one pistol in my left hand, a second in
my belt, my good broadsword in my
right hand, and my wood-knife between
my teeth, I drove the frail jalousies
asunder with one blow of my foot, and
stood the next moment in the scene of
terror. And God of mercy! what a
scene that was! Should I live centuries,
I never can forget it. It was but
a second that I gazed around me; yet,
in that fleeting second, I took in more
minute details than I could recount to
you in an hour; and so indelibly is
every small particular engraved in the
tablets of my memory, that, did I but
possess the painter's art, I could lay
them down, each and all, on canvass, to
the very life.
“The chamber was the sleepingroom
of some young female; and the
pure, spotless bed, with its snow-white
drapery, the crucifix and holy water in
a niche above the pillow, the exquisitely
wrought mats on the floor, the walls curtained
with needle-work, and adorned
with the finest works of Spanish art;
the large, old-fashioned, deeply-cushioned
chairs; the tables strewn with feminine
implements, flowers, and books
and implements of music; the very dim
and mellowed twilight which alone penetrated
the close jalousies and the
dense foliage overshading them—all
these suggested an idea, which words
cannot convey, of pure, contented innocence,
of refined, half-voluptuous luxury,
mingled with the calm love of peaceful
meditation and religious solitude.
Yet this sweet spot was already the
abode of death—might even be the
scene of outrage worse than death.
“On the low, virgin bed was stretched—
where it had been hastily deposited
by the alarmed bearers—the lifeless
corpse of an old man—an old Spanish
gentleman; for none could look on the
high, noble features, the broad, smooth,
massive brow, and the snow-white silky
hair, which fell down in long curls beside
his thin, wan cheeks, without feeling
the conviction that he looked on all
that was left of a high-minded and chivalrous
gentleman. A small, round,
livid hole in the centre of his forehead,
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surrounded by a discolored spot, and
the blood which had flowed from the
back of his head and deluged all the
cambric pillow-covers, showed plainly
that he had fallen by the unerring missile
of a Texan rifle; while the placid
expression of his features, and the smile
on his wan lips, proved that he had been
shot down in cold blood, when thinking
of anything rather than anger or hostility.
I learned afterward that he was
killed, in the very act of offering hospitality,
by the first shot discharged that
day, on his own threshold; and I do not
regret that the perpetrator of the atrocious
deed fell, that same day, by my
hand and this good weapon.
“But to proceed.—On the floor, close
to the window by which I made my entrance,
lay stretched an aged woman,
the wife apparently of him who slept
unconscious—happy that he was unconscious—
of the horrors which surrounded
him. She, too, had been struck
down, as I judged, not a moment before
I entered, by a chance bullet; for she
still breathed a little, although life was
fast ebbing from her veins in spite of the
efforts of the loveliest girl my eyes had
then looked upon, who knelt beside her,
seemingly unaware of the fierce uproar
which was raging, nearer and nearer
every moment, in the adjoining apartment,
the door of which stood wide open,
allowing the horrid din, the hideous imprecations,
and the blue sulphurous
smoke of the death-shots, which rang
incessantly without, to force their way
unhindered, into that quiet chamber.
“I said that one quick glance showed
me all this, and, in truth, I had not leisure
for a second; for I was not well
within the chamber, when a tall young
Spaniard staggered back to the threshold
of the door, and discharging a pistol
at the Texans, while in the very act of
dropping, fell headlong on the floor upon
his back, his left hand, which still
grasped the yet smoking pistol, striking
the ground within a few inches of the
feet of that fair girl. She started at the
dreadful interruption, and for the first
time, becoming aware of my presence,
uttered a long wild shriek; and, believing
that her hour had come, arose to her
feet with an effort, and laying her hand
on her bosom, said—in a low, sweet
voice, in the Spanish tongue—`Strike
if you will; but, in the name of the
most Holy Virgin! harm not an orphaned
virgin!'
“Alarmed by her cry, a young gentleman
richly dressed, who was defending
the door, with rapier and dagger,
with all the valor of despair, and whose
back had been turned toward us, looked
around quickly, and, as he did so, received
a sharp wound in the breast from
a Texan knife. The murderous weapon
was raised to repeat the blow, when
I seized him violently by the shoulder,
cast him back into the middle of the
room, crying `Amigo,' and thrust myself
into his place, confronting alone the
infuriate assailants.
“The men knew me in an instant,
and seemed to anticipate my errand;
for at first they all started back and
lowered their weapons. Had he of
whom we spoke been present at that
moment, the affair was ended; but he
was in some other part of the premises,
pursuing the fugitives, or urging on the
destroyers; and it unfortunately so occurred,
that the men before me were
the very worst, and most dreadful ruffians
of the troop. Their blood was up,
moreover; and several of them to the
intoxication of heated passions and unbridled
license had added the intoxication
of wine; quantities of which had
been found on the premises, and had
been drunk without stint, to quench
the fiery thirst engendered by the heat
of indulged hatred and ungoverned fury.
“It was in vain that I called on them
to hold, and demanded their captain.—
My answer was, that they were all captains
there alike, and would take no
command from any, coupled to an insolent
warning to take myself out of
harm's way if I were wise, before
worse should come of it. I am not
myself of the gentlest or most pacific
temper in the world; and opposition is
wont to make me somewhat difficult to
deal with. As one of those wretches
came pressing upon me violently, I
ordered him to stand off for a mutineer,
he aimed a blow at me with his bowie-knife,
and I retorted by shooting him
through the head on the instant. Half
a dozen set upon me, but not before my
second pistol was out, and a second marauder
stretched at my feet. Then, at
it we went, hand to hand; and what
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with my better arms—for my long
straight broadsword and wood-knife
kept their short cutting blades easily at
a distance—and what with the protection
afforded me by the doorway within
which I stood, I held them all at bay
for ten minutes or better, without giving
or taking a wound. I could have
settled half a dozen of them without
any trouble in the world, but I did not
wish to imitate them; and acting on
the defensive solely, I gave them time
to take thought, and recover their coolness
of mind.
“Bye and bye, finding they could
not force me, and that exchanging cuts
and thrusts without any result was but
dry work, the rearmost of my assailants
began to fall off one by one, so that I
was left with only three or four in front
of me, and those awaiting only an opportunity
to withdraw themselves without
absolutely showing the white feather.
This opportunity soon presented
itself, for hearing the continued din and
uproar from this small out of the way
building, the leader of the party, whose
hot thirst for blood was already satiated—
to do him justice, his fits of rage are
as transient as they are murderous—
and who already had begun to repent
the horrors he had perpetrated, came
hastily that way.
“A moment or two before he reached
the spot, he was informed of my coming,
and of the resistance I had met
from his men; and the first thing I
knew of his approach, was hearing his
voice raised to its highest and fiercest
tones. Whether he would come in,
therefore, as a friend or a foe—whether
he would hear reason, or resent my interference
as an insult, was to me a
matter perfectly doubtful and uncertain.
The doubt, however, did not last
long, for scarce had I distinguished the
first accents of his angry voice, before
he rushed into the room. There was
blood on his face, on his hands, on the
blade of his sabre, which he bore still
unsheathed. He was as pale as ashes;
even his lips were white, not with fear
nor with fury, but with the sick exhaustion
that follows ever on the heel of
over-fierce excitement. But so soon as
his eye fell upon the group opposing
me, and saw that I was fighting on the
defensive, it seemed positively to flash
fire—his white cheek gleamed with a
red unnatural hectic—and he actually
gnashed his teeth with rage. “Rascals!
Dogs! Mutineers!” he shouted,
“Do you dare to resist an officer?
Down with them, Pierre; down with
the dogs! Spare them no longer!
Give them no quarter!” and suiting the
action to the word, as the hindmost man
of the party turned round, aghast at
finding himself as it were between two
fires, he threw himself upon him, and
ran his sword through his body. The
rest flung down their arms, and with
some difficulty, I obtained their grace,
for he would hear at first of nothing but
drum-head court-martial, and immediate
execution.
“And now, my tale is told. That
bower is the sole relic of a once rich
and noble residence—that fair pale girl
is, with the sole exception of her brother,
who was the wounded youth I mentioned,
the last scion of a race as noble as
ever came from the shores of old Castile.
Time has repaired the outward
ruin, and the rich vegetation of this land
of flowers has converted the smoke-blackened
piles, which were once a
palace, into pyramids of greenery and
glowing blossoms. The devastation
and desolation of a ruined heart what
can repair? Marguerita dwells in her
father's halls, once so proud, so happy,
and so great, a lonely mourner, impoverished
if not absolutely needy, without
companions, friends or servants, except
one aged couple and their son, a shepherd
boy, who absent with his flocks,
escaped the massacre. Respect for her
misfortunes, and shame, perhaps, for
the barbarity of their maddened countrymen,
renders her sacred to Americans.
Among the Mexicans she is, of
course, regarded as a martyr and an
angel.”
“Great God!” can such things be,
and not call down Heaven's thunder?”
cried Julia, who had listened with indescribable
anxiety to the wild tale.
“Ask rather, what things cannot be,
when the hounds of war and havoc are
let slip—when the fiercest and most
savage passions of the most fierce and
untamed men are released from the restraints
of society and law—when hot
animal courage is alone rewarded, alone
regarded as a virtue, and the first of
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virtues—when whole nations, when
grave passionless men, when ministers
of God's holy gospel, when delicate and
lovely women, vie with each other in
bestowing honors and praise, te deums,
aye, and love itself on those whose sole
title to their approbation is written in
the blood of fellow beings.”
“You speak eloquently, Partisan,”
replied the young dragoon, “perhaps
truly; certainly as one feeling what he
thinks. Yet you too are a soldier.”
“Perhaps I am aweary of the trade.”
He answered gloomily, letting his head
droop upon his chest. “Or rather,” he
added, correcting himself, “I am a soldier
no longer, though I wear a soldier's
weapons. I buckled them on when my
own country—for Texas was my country—
was invaded; and when its independence
was secured, I laid them by,
though not to rest, as needless. If you
see me in arms now, it is that the wild
spirit of adventure, which has become
second life to me, urges me to the scenes
where daring deeds are done, and where
bold men encounter boldly. I might
add, and I believe truly, that my presence
in the field has done much since
that day to allay, nothing to inflame,
the atrocities of national animosity, and
invading warfare. My sword is rarely
drawn now, except in defence of myself
or of others, who like yourselves need
my assistance—are you answered?”
“Answered sufficiently, at least, to
see that I have no cause to regret, but
much to rejoice at in the fact, that if
not a soldier, you are still at least a
Partisan.”
“But tell me,” exclaimed Julia, who
had listened rather impatiently to the
late discussion. “Her brother! what
became of her brother who was wounded,
whom you saved?”
“What could become of him. We
pulled his sombrero over his eyes,
buckled his father's sword to his side,
and his good spurs to his heel, took
lance and lasso, backed his best horse,
and never since has given quarter to a
man who speaks with an English
tongue. I would not bet a dollar that
he would spare my life, if I fell into his
hands in action.”
“And have you never seen him
since?”
“Twice! once we met in a sharp
charge of horse—the same in which
that captain of whom I told you, fell—
and fell by Juan de Alava's hand—and
then we crossed swords, and laid on
loud as the old ball ds say, until we
were separated in the meleé. Again,
when he was taken in the very act of
leading a squadron of our dragoons,
disguised as a guide, into an ambuscade
of Carrera's lancers. The noose
was about his neck, I can tell you; and
the other end of the rope was cast over
the stout limb of a live oak. In two
minutes more, had I not come up at the
nick of time, the last their male of the
Alavas would have been dancing on a
tight rope.”
“And how, taken in a crime so flagrant,
could ever your influence save
him?”
“One life is no great boon, in return
for a hundred and fifty. It was I
warned the detachment, and saved all
their throats from being cut, within ten
minutes. Do you think the Major,
whose life and military reputation I had
saved, was like to refuse me such a trifle
as the life of a poor devil of a Mexican
spy? He stared at me as though
I were mad when I asked it, but when
he saw that I was in earnest, he bade
the troopers kick him out of the camp
and let him go to the devil. I begged
him off the kicking, too, and I believe
he thought more of that than of my
saving his sister or his life; at least, he
shook my hand that time, which he had
never done before, and bade `God speed
me.' ”
“And where is he now, or how engaged?”
asked Gordon.
“Since Romano Fallon's troop has
been broken up, he is Padre Taranta's
right hand man. He is the most dangerous
enemy America now has in all
Mexico.”
“And it is to his sister's dwelling
that you are leading me?” asked Julia
in astonishment.
“Even so, lady. If once you cross
her threshold, you are safe against all
the force of Mexico, until such time as
we can bring you succor, or a flag
under which you may enter the lines.”
“For her, I can well believe you,
Partisan; for she were no true woman,
if she would not shed her heart's blood,
ere you should scratch your finger;
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but what if he, what if this dreadful
brother should be there.”
“He is there, lady, with half Taranta's
band. It was to his party that our
captive was flying, when the Camanches
slew him.”
“And what shall save me, then—
what shall save us all from the Spaniard's
vengeance?”
“The Spaniard's honor, lady.”
“And will you trust to so frail a
chancé?”
“So frail, lady! the honor of an
honorable man is stronger than the Gibraltar's
rock. But were it frailas the
frailest thing on earth, it is all that is
left to which you can be trusted. To
his protection I will commit you, reverentially
be it spoken, rather than to
any safeguard in the world, save that of
the most High.”
“Then so will I,” said Julia, cheerfully,
“then so will I commit myself to
it, without a doubt. Will not you, Arthur?”
“It seems that we have no choice,”
he answered, gloomily, as if not altogether
satisfied.
“If we had fifty, and the Partisan
spoke thus, this choice would be my
choice,” replied Julia, firmly; and her
slender form appeared to wax more
majestical, and her innocent and dove-like
features assumed a higher and
more spirited meaning as she expressed
her determination, filled for the moment
with the impulse of heroic resolution.
CHAPTER XII. THE RUINED RANCHO.
The moon by this time had risen,
and already far above the horizon was
beginning to pour her light into the
shadowy recesses of the forest. The
skies were as clear as a vault of the
purest crystal, and the broad, round
disk of the beautiful satellite now well
nigh full, rode over them in perfect
majesty, surrounded by a host of resplendent
stars.
But through the heavy foliage of the
mighty live oaks, the tops of which,
whenever any opening occurred in the
thick woodland, might be seen bathed in
the pure pallid lustre, every leaf, wet
with the diamond dew-drops, twinkling
and shivering in the soft air; scarcely
a beam found its way to the soil from
which they sprang. The nature of the
soil itself was different from that which
they had thus far traversed, and in lieu
of the deep, moist, black mould covered
with long rich grass, and giving birth to
a thousand gorgeous flowers and luxuriant
shrubs, the hoofs of the horses
now turned up a thick and ponderous
sand from beneath the scanty herbage,
which thinly clad its arid surface.
Under the heat of the Mexican noonday,
when the breeze is asleep in its
far chambers of the vaulted sky, the
march through these elevated woods
were toilsome and even painful to excess.
The over burdened animals
sinking more than fetlock beneath the
weight of their riders or their packs;
the intolerable dust-wreaths smoking up
from beneath their tread, the torturing
bites of envenomed insects, the smothering
heat that broods ever undisturbed
by a breath of air, beneath those green
aisles, render a mid day journey
through that district, an enterprise
more difficult, if not so dangerous as a
pilgrimage across the parched waste of
Sahara.
Beneath the coolness of the dewy
night, and under the rays of the cold
moon, the case is widely different; and
when the little party again mounted
their horses, restored by their short
halt, and reinvigorated by the forage
which had been hastily collected for
them, their progress was once more
rapid and less laborious than during
any portion of their previous progress.
No sounds were to be heard but the
light flutter of the breezy leaves, for the
tramp of the horses was inaudible on
the soft sandy road, and had it not been
for the occasional cry of some startled
night bird, or the hum of some chance
insects, the voyagers might have imagined
that without the exception of
themselves and their horses, there was
not a living animal awake within the
precincts of the great upland forest.
Throughout this wild tract, the ground
beneath the canopy of the huge trees
was bare and quite clear of underwood,
so much so that squadrons of cavalry
might have manœuvred between the
gigantic stems, although the far
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reaching boughs and evergreen foliage, excluded
even glimmering of moonlight,
except where along the line of the narrow
road they were pursuing, an occasional
gleam pierced through at distant
intervals.
Along this road they had travelled
without any occurrence to disturb or
interrupt them, for about four hours
since they halted, and although advancing
only at an easy ambling canter had
traversed something better than twenty
miles, when the distant barking of a
large dog was distinctly heard by all
the party, and within a few minutes
after that sound became audible, the advanced
dragoon, who was a hundred or
two yards ahead of the party, reined up
and informed the Partisan that a heavy
body of horse were coming down the
road rapidly towards them.
Scarcely, indeed, had the man spoken
before the truth of his report was evident.
For, as he halted instantly on the
receipt of the unwelcome tidings, the
clang of stirrups and scabbards became
at once audible, and the quick ear of
the Partisan enabled him almost immediately
to form a shrewd conjecture as
to their numbers.
The road, a little way above the spot
where they stood, made an abrupt elbow
to avoid the gulley of a brook, the waters
of which could be heard gurgling
faintly over the pebbles, and wound to
and fro so as nearly to form a letter S,
a line drawn through which would not
have exceeded half a mile in length,
while the measure of all its sinuosities
would easily have exceeded thrice that
distance.
“There are above an hundred of
them,” said Pierre, after listening for
a moment; “and it is sure enough
they are coming right down upon us.
Fortunate is it for us that the read is
not straight, or they would have been
down on us before we suspected it. As
it is we can be safe enough, before they
come thus far, and yet we have little
time to lose. Hold up your sabres, my
men, that they do not strike your spurs
or stirrups, and follow me in single file.
Let me have a hand on your bridle
rein, lady. Gordon, close up behind
us, we must trot.”
And with the word, pricking his
orse lightly with the spur, he turned
the head of Julia's palfrey short to the
right hand, and leaving the beaten track
plunged without hesitation into the
depths of the forest. For a hundred
yards, or better, the ground which they
crossed was entirely level, but at the
end of this distance it became broken
and uneven, and the roar of rapid water
sounded nearer and nearer at every
step.
Darker and darker grew the forest,
as they proceeded and descended, and
as they neared the banks of the torrent,
the ground became interspersed with
single shrubs, and then with scattered
patches of brake and brushes, until at
the margin of the turbulent water, a
dense fringe of continuous underwood
was visible.
Before they reached this, however,
and within a quarter of a mile of the
road itself, Pierre halted, and telling
Julia that there was no danger, and desiring
the men not to stir from the spot,
or speak, or call out whatever they
might hear or see, dismounted from his
horse, cast the rein to a dragoon, and
then hurried back on foot, as fast as he
could, directly toward the track which
they had just left.
Treading the soft earth with a noiseless
step, and availing himself of the
covert of every bush, every stem, every
inequality of the ground, he soon contrived
to worm his way to the very edge
of the road, along which the cavalry
they had heard was in full march.
He had scarcely thrown himself
down on the grass, at a spot, where in
consequence of some trifling moisture,
it grew longer and ranker than elsewhere,
before the increasing clatter
and clang announced the approach of
the horsemen, and the next moment a
long line of bright sparks of fire became
visible, undulating as they followed the
sweep of the road, and agitated gently
up and down by the swift motion of the
horses.
“Just as I thought, Guerillas!” muttered
the Partisan to himself; “even
Mexican regulars would scarce be
smoking thus on a forced night march,
as this must be; for they can scarce
expect any work to do, or any enemy
to surprise within fifty miles of this or
better. But patience! patience! we
shall soon know their game, for by
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heaven! they are talking as if each man
had two tongues. It is Juan de Alava's
squadron, for a thousand!”
Scarcely had he ceased from speaking,
or rather thinking within himself,
for although his ideas almost formed
themselves into actual sentences, they
were by no means formed in articulate
words, when the body of irregular horse
began to file past him, in loose order,
three or four sometimes riding abreast,
and at other times each cavalier singly,
and, that too, with considerable intervals
between. Just when they passed him,
there was an opening in the treetops,
and the moonlight streamed down
through it in a pencil of bright yellow
lustre which was contrasted splendidly
against the surrounding shadows,
and which, the Partisan judged truly,
would render the darkness of the forest
around only the more intense to those
who viewed it from that focus of illumination.
The spot of the road, on which this
clear light fell, was but two or three
yards across at the utmost, and as man
after man rode into it out of the shadow
on the one hand, gleamed, fully revealed,
to the minute details of his dress
and accountrements for a moment, and
was again lost in the gloom beyond—
the sight was beyond conception strange,
savage, and exciting.
The wild, active little horse, the huge
hats, and long jetblack elflocks of the
riders—their many colored blankets
and ponchos, and the flash of the positive
armory which each trooper bore
about him, composed a picture worthy
the pencil of Salvator.
The red gleam of their cigars as they
drew them, now and then, into a keener
radiance with their breath, flashed luridly
up over their swarthy features,
and disclosed some of them so fully,
that the Partisan even recognised the
faces of individuals whose names and
deeds were familiar to his ears.
The squadron was perhaps ten minutes
or a quarter of an hour passing
him, for they were as he had conjectured
by the sound, while they were
yet at a distance above a hundred of
them—in fact he reckoned about a score
beyond that number—and they rode, as
I have said, in very open order, and
not much faster than a foot pace.
Pierre listened to every word that
fell from their lips, as if his life depended
on his catching the import of what
they said, but for a long time it was all
in vain. For though he lay so close to
the speakers as to catch every syllable,
and understood their tongue perfectly,
the riders either knew not the object of
their own march, or cared not to converse
about it. Their words, therefore,
were to the ears of the Partisan mere
jargon, turning on subjects of personal
interest to the men, and sometimes containing
sentiments of mere ribaldry
and licentiousness, or anticipations of
massacre and plunder, which made the
heart of the listener bound in his breast
with indignant anger.
At last when a hundred and twenty
men, all armed with the lance and long
straight two edged sword, all having
the formidable lasso coiled up at the
saddle-bow, and the most of them having
two escopetas, or short heavy ounce
balled carabines slung at their sides,
had filed passed him in succession, a
longer interval occurred in the line than
he had hitherto observed, and thinking
that they were all gone, and that the
danger was at an end, he was on the
point of rising to his feet. It was well
for him, however, that he did not so,
for, when he had actually raised himself
to his knees, the tramp of two
horses at a gallop struck his ear, suddenly,
and he had barely the time to
conceal himself again in the grass, before
the two horses were within arms
length of him.
The next glance showed him that his
life had not been worth a dollar's purchase
had he fully arisen to his feet, for
he needed nothing to tell him that the
eyes of the two who now passed him—
eyes wandering suspiciously at every
step of their horses through the forest
about them—were very different to encounter
from those of the mere troopers,
who had hitherto passed by him.
These two men were of a widely different
aspect from the rest, and from
each other also, though one of them
were clad, except that the materials
were richer, in the same costume with
the men who preceded him.
The other, who rode a little the foremost
of the two, and the nearest to the
Partisan, was a little old shrivelled
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man, not above the middle height, and
worn down almost to the emaciation of
a living skeleton between the fatigues
of war, and exposure to weather. Yet
within that frail and meagre frame,
hardened as it was and exercised into
a mere mass of compact bone and
sinew, it was easy to perceive that
there resided a world of untamed youthful
spirit, and all the strength of manhood.
He sat a fine black horse, which
arched its neck against the curb proudly,
and seemed to be fighting, all the
time, against the hand which controlled
it, with all the elastic strength and easy
vigor which are natural to twenty years,
but at three score and ten seem almost
miraculous.
And yet from his thin wrinkled face,
his bird-like hand—for he rode gloveless—
the aged stoop of his shoulders, as he
bowed over his saddle bow, and the
snow-white hair which escaped from
beneath his broad-leafed hat, the long
moustache and peaked vandy ke beard,
all of the same wintry hue, it was evident
that his earthy pilgrimage had
been prolonged already beyond the
term which the psalmist assigns to the
strongest of the sons of men.
His dress was a closely fitted sackshaped
coat, or tunic, barely descending
to his saddle, and buttoned up to his
very throat with large jet buttons. A
broad white band or collar was folded
squarely over it at the neck, and gave a
singular character, half clerical, half
puritanical, to the figure which was
little in keeping with the keen hard
impressive features, or with the weapons
which he bore. Loose black kneebreeches,
not far different from the
trunk-hose of Cromwell's time, with
a pair of cavalry boots equipped with
heavy spurs, and a broad brimmed,
high crowned black hat, completed his
attire. For arms: from his girdle of
black leather there hung a light English
sabre with a steel scabbard and
ivory handle, such as was carried many
years ago, and in his holsters a pair of
cavalry pistols of the same date and
fabric, but he bore neither lance nor
lasso, nor was there any escopeta at
his side.
The young man who accompanied him
was a tall, handsome, powerful figure,
deep-chested, and thin flanked, and
showing prodigious powers both of offence
and endurance. His high gray hat
glittered with massive ornaments of silver;
his velvet jacket was profusely laced
with gold, and the large buckskin pantaloons,
open from the knee downward,
were decorated with a double row of
golden fillagree buttons, hanging like
little bullets along the seam. His poncho,
which was strapped behind his saddle,
was of the very finest texture, and
the brightest color; and all the weapons
which he bore, though in character and
form precisely similar to those of the
men, were of the finest fabric, and in
the best condition.
“Now, Padre,” exclaimed the younger,
“for the love of God! let us set
spur to our horses, and get the troop
forward at a quicker pace. At this
rate, we shall not reach the open ground
before day-break; and, in that case,
they will have the start of us.”
“Not so, not so, Juan,” replied the
old man, in a clear, hard voice. “If
our information be correct, and there be
a lady with them, as I doubt not it is,
they will have halted for the night, and
the later we come upon the ground, the
more chance of finding them. I know
a little of the habits of these English
and American ladies, for they are pretty
much the same, I fancy. I have
seen more than one or two of them in
Spain, and it took as many men to
escort one of them, and wait on her
pleasure, as would have guarded a battery,
or a train of specie. No, no, my
lad, we will not blow our horses: it is
the slow thrower who makes the sure
winner.”
They continued speaking as they rode
along; but these were all the words
that reached the ears of the Partisan.
No more did he require, however, to
inform him of all that he wished to know.
It was their own party, of whom the
Rancheros were in search, informed
probably by an express from Carrera,
of the direction which they were supposed
to have taken, and ignorant as
yet of the vicinity of the Camanches,
who but rarely advanced so far into the
interior.
So soon as the clatter of their passage
had died away into the ordinary silence
of the woods, the Partisan hurried back
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
to join his friends, who were awaiting
his return in no small anxiety, at least,
not to say trepidation.
“All is well!” he exclaimed, as soon
as he came into ear-shot of the little
party: “all is well. Better even than
I expected. It is Padre Taranto, and
young Juan de Alava, with the best
troop I have yet seen of guerillas. Pretty
men, and well mounted. They are
in search of us, too, having received
notice of our being on the prairie, and
not knowing anything about the Caman.
ches.”
“And do you call that good news?”
cried Gordon, in some surprise.
“Of course; I do. In the first place,
we shall find the rancho ungarrisoned,
and little Margarita at liberty to receive
us as she will. And, in the second—
even if they do not meet the
Indians, and fall foul of them—they
have got at the least a three days' scout
before them. For this is the last place
on the face of the wide world, where
they would think to look for us; and,
long before they can return, I will have
rifles enough here to beat them into the
Bravo, if they should dare to attack us.
But come, let us move. We are but a
mile or two distant from the rancho.”
No sooner said than done. They
hastened back to the main road, and,
relieved now from the necessity of so
much caution, cantered forward at a better
pace than they had as yet ventured
on trying. Half an hour's riding brought
them to the banks of the rivulet which
divided the clear grounds that surrounded
the once splendid estate from
the wild forest.
Over the open fields, now all over-grown
with bushes, and overrun with
creeping vines and wild flowers, and
over the once trim and well-kept gardens,
now a rank wilderness of neglected
sweets and unkempt verdure, the
cold moon, now declining toward the
horizon, poured her slant rays with a sad
melancholy lustre, as if she grieved over
the desolation of the scene.
Many tall shattered piles of building,
completely overrun with the luxuriant
foliage of unnumbered parasitical plants,
stood here and there in the wide area
outspread before their eyes, all silvered
at the edges by the dewy moonlight; but
not a single beam could fall upon the
one low, lonely building, which alone
remained habitable in that scene of ruthless
devastation, so thickly was it overshadowed
by the superb trees which, by
their friendly shelter, had saved it from
destruction.
A solitary owl was hooting wild and
shrill from one of the ruins, as they rode
into what had once been the great court
of the rancho, and paused for a moment
to water their horses at a stone basin in
which once a tall fountain had played
brilliantly, but no other sound, betokening
life of man or beast, reached their
ears.
A minute or two afterward, however,
as the hoofs of their horses began to
clatter on the pavement, a fierce baying
broke upon the stillness of the night, and
two huge sheep-dogs, of the far-famed
Mexican breed, came bounding out,
furious, as if to attack the intruders.
But the Partisan spoke to them sharply,
calling them by their names, and, at
the instant, they ceased baying, and
cowered before his horse's feet, fawning
and whimpering with delight, as if rejoiced
to welcome an old friend.
Then, as if aroused by the uproar,
some one was heard to stir within the
rancho, a light flashed through one of
the casements, which was immediately
afterward thrown open—a loud voice
hailing to inquire who came so late, and
a long glittering musket barrel being
protruded in stern menace from the lattice.
“Friends, friends!” cried the Partisan,
in the Spanish tongue. “It is I,
Sanchez; it is Pedro, the Forester.”
“Thanks be to God!” shouted the old
man, who had spoken from within:
“welcome, welcome, senor! Wait 'till
I open the doors for you.”
The lattice was pulled to, as he ceased
speaking; but they could hear him hallooing
within to arouse his mistress and
the scanty household.
“Ho! senorita, senorita! Ho! rise,
arise! It is he, it is he, who comes
with good fortune. It is he, senora Margarita;
he, Pedro the Forester, Pedro el
Salvador!”
A moment afterward, the bolts were
drawn and the gate thrown open, and
the lady, with her conductors, entered
the ruined rancho.
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CHAPTER XIII. MARGARITA.
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
The first sight which met the eyes of
Julia Gordon, as she crossed the threshold
of the door, and stood within the
hall of that lonely dwelling, was the
figure of a young delicate tall girl, who
struck her, at the first glance, as being
the very loveliest creature her eyes had
ever looked upon. And indeed she was
exceeding lovely.
You might have searched the wide
world over, and scarce found two such
beings as those, thus strangely brought
together, types of two different races,
models of two contrasted forms of beauty,
from the extreme east to the farthest
west.
Julia Gordon the perfection of the
glorious glowing womanhood of the allconquering
Anglo-Norman strain, and
Margarita de Alava of the once mighty
Gothic race of Spain.
The two stood, for the moment, struck
with a sort of half-fearful wonder and
wild admiration. And, if the Spanish
maiden was actually dazzled—as if a
creature of another sphere had stood
before her, face to face—by the voluptuous
outlines of the young wife's form,
displayed as they were by the close fitting
boddice and tight sleeves of her
riding-habit, by the unrivalled brilliancy
of her exquisite complexion, by the
soft yet pervading radiance of her beautiful
blue eyes, by the rich silky masses
of her dishevelled aubnrn hair, flowing
in loose long ringlets from beneath the
broad brim of her beaver hat, scarce
less did the fair American marvel at
the slight symmetry of the Spanish
maiden, and the rare beauty of her
classic features.
Like Julia, Margarita was far taller
than the majority of her sex. Like
Julia's, her waist was scarce a span in
circumference, her falling shoulders
splendidly arched, her lower limbs richly
developed; but, unlike Julia's, her
charms lacked the ripe fulness of mature
and glowing womanhood. Her
pale, clear, colorless, olive complexion,
without a hue of carnation on her cheek,
yet showing, in its peach-like softness;
and mellow golden tinge, the warmth
and healthfulness of the high blood
which filled her veins; her high, pale
forehead, with the twin arches of her
lustrous brows, the long, large, swimming
eyes, half languor and half fire,
flashing out from beneath the silken
fringes of her deep jetty lashes, the thin,
straight, classic nose, the small voluptuously-pouting
mouth, shaped like the
bow of Cupid, the softly rounded chin,
all combined to make up a picture—
which nothing earthly could surpass—
of the half oriental beauty of the high
race of Spain.
It was clear, that she had but that instant
started from her bed; for her small feet,
which were white as those of that praised
queen, whom the old rhapsodist has immortalized
as the silver-footed, were all
unsandalled; and as they pressed the
dark marble of the uncarpeted floor,
they shone as brightly out as if they had
been modelled of the purest alabaster.
She wore a long loose robe of white
linen, with many falling ruffles around
the bosom, which was cut somewhat low,
displaying all her ivory, swan-like neck,
and a large portion of her maiden bust.
No corsage or stiff boddice confined the
contour of her slender waist, or controlled
the billowy play of her supple
and elastic form; but below a short
petticoat of very full black silk was tied
tightly about her waist, having a deep
lace fringe hanging down from its upper
edge, and reaching but a little way below
the knees, beneath which the white
underdress fell in large draperies, deeply
flounced and ruffled, quite to her ancles.
Her exquisitely modelled, and fully
rounded arms were bare qnite to the
shoulders; but neither on them, nor on
her neck or bosom, were there any ornaments
or jewels, unless a rosary of
ebony beads, with every here and there
a single brilliant glittering among them,
supporting a magnificently sculptured
crucifix of gold, which hung loosely over
her shoulders, can be called an ornament.
In her left hand, she carried a small
lamp, which was the only light in the
large apartment; and in her right—
strange contrast to her delicate form and
timid virgin air—there flashed clear in
the lamplight, the sheatbless blade of a
long keen stiletto.
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
She stood, for a moment, as I have
said, amazed, and, it would seem, almost
awe-struck, by the strange loveliness
of her unexpected visitant; but in
the next, seeing that there was no danger
to be apprehended, she dropped the
dagger quietly upon the table, nigh to
which she stood, set down the lamp beside
it, and advanced with an air of
calm, yet courteous dignity to meet her
strange guests.
“I will not ask,” she said, in tones
breathing the very soul of harmony,
using the pure castilian tongue, “I will
not ask whence you come, beautiful
lady, or wherefore, nor of what race
you are, for it is night, and there is no
other dwelling near, and you are young
and delicate, as you are fair; and our
wild forests are no place for youth or
beauty. You are welcome, lady, most
welcome, to the last ruined roof that
war has left to Margarita de Alava.
Again, you are most welcome, to all the
hospitality my poor roof can offer.”
It seemed that she had not distinguished
the words of old Sanchez, when he
shouted to arouse her from her slumbers;
for as the partisan advanced, who
had stood hitherto a little in the background,
and had been concealed by the
darkness which peryaded the whole
room, with the exception of the little
space immediately around the lamp of
Margarita, she started as if in terror, at
first, and turned as pale as ashes, but
the next moment her cheek, brow, neck,
and bosom flushed crimson; nay, her
very arms and hands were incarnadined,
even to the very finger ends, as she
sprang eagerly forward to greet him.
“You! you!” she cried, fervently,
“do my eyes tell me truly?—is it indeed
you?—lord of my life!—friend of
my soul!—preserver of my honor! is it
indeed you, Pedro el Salvador! Oh,
God be thanked, and Mary, the most
holy! that you are here beneath the
roof, which but for you would have
been now a pile of ashes. Heaven send
that you have come asking for something
at my hands, that I may prove the
depth, the truth, the everlasting and undying
strength of a poor Spanish maiden's
gratitude. Oh! I am happy—oh,
very, very happy!
And, as she spoke, in the intensity of
her passionate feelings, she clasped her
snowy arms about the rough soldier's
neck, and letting fall her Madonna-like
head on his iron shoulders, burst into a
flood of tears.
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the gallant
rover, gently disengaging himself from
the innocent girl's embrace, “nay,
nay! weep not sweet senorita, this is
no time for tears.” He spoke in the
Spanish tongue, which he used with
perfect fluency, and with a very pure
dialect; “for I have indeed come to
ask you a favor—a favor as great as the
lives of us all!”
“Ask for my life, rather,” she answered
emphatically, suffering her tears
to trickle down her cheeks unheeded,
“for it is yours; ask for my soul! you
should have it, were it mine to bestow;
ask for all, everything except my honor—
and oh, for the sake of heaven! ask
me not for that, Don Pedro, for by the
faith I hold, I fear me I could not bring
thee even that, if thou couldst ask it,
which I know to be impossible.”
“Impossible, indeed, Margarita,” replied
the Partisan, “impossible, indeed,
that either I should ask, or you
grant that, were it to save a world. But
listen to me, and first look upon this
beautiful young woman.”
“She is beautiful,” replied Margarita,
without so much as turning her
her eyes towards Julia Gordon, and as
she spoke a strange wild expression
crossed her pale features. “She is
beautiful; what of her?
“She is of the race, Margarita, on
earth, the most hostile to your own—
she is an American! Nay more, she is
the child of a soldier! the wife of a soldier!
the wife of one of those, who are
here to carry the sword into your people's
ranks—the fire into your people's
dwellings—to devastate, perhaps to subjugate,
your land.”
“What more, Don Pedro? You
said all that, when you said American,
unless, indeed, you had added volunteers,”
she continued, with a smile half
scornful, halfsarcastic, “which she can
scarcely be. What more of her, Don
Pedro?
“She is a woman, as you see, young,
delicate and beautiful, and timid by her
very nature. She married the choice
of her heart.”
“Happy girl!” sighed the Spanish
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
maiden; but Pierre proceeded, as if he
had not observed the interruption.
“And he is a soldier. She left home,
friends, wealth, rank, luxurious comforts,
all that makes life most pleasant,
to traverse the howling forests, and the
desolate prairies, to swim bridgeless rivers,
to sleep beneath the untented heavens,
to follow him she loved, whither
his duty, and his country's orders, called
him! She has been hunted, these three
days, in peril such as woman rarely has
encountered, and from that peril as men
rarely bear it; chased by Carrera's
horse—beleaguered by the terrible Camanches,
and, within the last hour, all
but surprised by the Padre's guerillas.
Had any of these taken her, you know
her fate, Margarita.”
“Add one word more, Don Pedro,
say, that she is your wife!” said the
girl in a singular tone of half resentful
vehemence, which Pierre did not then
comprehend.
“She is the wife of my friend, Lieutenant
Gordon, lady,” he replied; “no
volunteer, I assure you, but one of
May's dragoons.”
“But you love her!” she again exclaimed
almost fiercely scrutinizing his
face with her large earnest eyes, as if
she would have read his soul.
“As my sister, Margarita,” replied the
stout soldier simply. “But to what
tends all this? she must die, nor die
only, but suffer that which to honorable
minds is more dreadful than a thousand
deaths, unless you save her.”
“I save her—I—I!—her whom you
love!”
“I should have thought that would
have been a cause the more, why you
should do so,” replied the veteran; who
with the singular simplicity and innocence,
which formed a part of his character,
did not in the least suspect what
was evident enough both to Gordon and
to Julia, the reason of her strange manner.
“But I have erred, it seems, in
nothing more than in my estimate, it
would appear,” he added contemptuously
“ `of the depth, the truth, the
everlasting and undying strength of a
Spanish maiden's gratitude,' come, my
friends, I have erred, it seems, and led
you into error. Come; we will trust
to our swords for safety, or, if we must
needs seek hospitality, henceforth we
will seek it in the skin-tents of the
Camanches.”
While he spoke thus, the Spanish
girl stood silent, and motionless as a
marble statue, with her fair neck bent,
and her beautiful eyes fixed on vacancy,
with one hand pressed almost convulsively
upon her heart, and the other
hanging down listlessly by her side.
But when he ceased speaking, she
stepped quickly forward, and caught
him by the arm, as he turned to go;
and then it was evident that of all he
had said, the first words only had struck
her ear, or made an impression on her
mind.
“You are right,” she said, in a cold
mournful voice, “You are right, Pedro.
It is a cause the more—and I am—it
matters not what! Mea culpa! mea
culpa!” she cried, breaking off suddenly,
“pray for me Holiest Maria,
pray for me!” then turning to Julia,
and taking her hand, which she raised
to her lips, “Pardon me,” she said,
“pardon me, dear lady; but at times I
am half distraught, and my mind wanders,
I know not how or whither—since—
since that day—but he has told you,
doubtless. In one word you are welcome!
You are as safe as if you were
within the temple of your God! You
are alone, you are in danger, he loves
you, and I doubt not you love him; and
I, Margarita de Alava, swear it, by all
the saints of heaven! that I will die,
before one hair of your head, one nail
of your finger, be injured! But this,”
she continued, after a moment's pause,
“this is poor hospitality. Without
there! Sanchez, Estefania, bring lights,
and wine, and pile up the fire; the
nights are chilly here among our forests.”
The old shepherd, who had been
awaiting her commands without, marvelling
evidently at the long delay ere
he was summoned, appeared instantly
bearing a pair of tall waxen candles,
almost torches in size, in two massive
silver candlesticks of different patterns,
but of great value, and elaborate antique
workmanship.
A woman, apparently of extreme age
but still vigorous and active, followed
him, carrying a tray, covered with a
clean white napkin, on which was a
tall cut-glass flagon, and several glasses
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of various forms and patterns, and a
plate or two of cakes and sweetmeats.
Meantime the door was closed and
secured, charcoal was supplied bountifully
to the half-extinguished stove, and
in a minute or two, the large room,
lately so cavernous and cold, was filled
with a genial warmth, and illuminated
to its remotest angles by the soft light
of the large candles.
It took less time to effect this change
than it has taken to describe it; and
that short time was consumed in whispered
conversation between the two
young women, and the exchange of a
quick glance or two, between the partisan
and Gordon, the latter of whom
clearly understood a part—though he
was far from comprehending, as he
fancied he did—of that strange byplay
which had preceeded their late welcome.
The partisan, then left the room for
a minute or two, in order to give some
instruction to the dragoons; for, in the
present crisis, Gordon had delegated
the command to him; while the young
husband drew near to the stove, unwilling
to quit Julia, and more than half
suspicious of the Spanish lady's motives.
So soon, however, as the girl's eye
fell upon her own scanty attire revealed,
as it was now, by the bright lustre of
the candles, she started, as if she had
but that instant remembered how slenderly
she was clad; blushed crimson,
and raising both her hands to conceal
her half-uncovered bosom, turned quickly
and fled with a swift step into the inner
chamber.
“Strange! this is very strange, Julia,”
exclaimed the young dragoon, as his
eye, after following Margarita's flight,
returned to the innocent and gentle
features of his own lovely wife. “She
is the strangest girl I ever saw. She
is either mad or wicked—if not both.”
“Not one of the three, Arthur,” answered
his young wife, with a gay artless
smile. “I thought you were a better
judge of women's manners, if not of
women's minds. She is in love, that is
all!”
“No, that is not all, Julia,” replied
Gordon, “and I might retort your hint,
but that I know you are too quick not
to have seen that she is jealous, also,”
and there was something in the tone,
and in the expression of his eye, as he
spoke, that seemed to inquire, “and is
she so without a cause?”
“Jealous of me, Arthur?” she exclaimed,
blushing deeply as she said
the words; and he observed the blush,
but observed not the indignant tone in
which she spoke.
“Is that a blush of consciousness, or
of shame, Julia?” he said, after a moment's
pause, gazing at her sternly.
“Of indignation!” she answered vehemently,
her soft blue eyes flashing
fire as she answered him. “Of indignation,
sir, that any man should dare
use such words, entertain such thoughts
of me—my God! my God! of me—
who have left—but it matters not!”
she added, checking her expostulation
and speaking firmly in that low concentrated
tone which shows far more the
depth of wounded feelings, than the
angriest and loudest vehemence. “It
matters not, sir, for you are no more
capable of judging the honor of an
honorable man, than of estimating the
love of a true woman. Yes, Arthur
Gordon, she is both in love and jealous.
I saw that at a glance; and I will tell
you something more; she is not jealous
without a cause. Is your glance
answered? For the man whom she
loves, does not love her, and does love
me!”
“By G—! this is too much!” cried
Gordon, stamping his foot furiously on
the ground, and grasping the hilt of his
sabre, “must I bear this?—are my
hands tied?”
“You must! They are!” she replied
curtly and sternly. “This, and more,
you must bear. He loves me passionately,
madly, with a love that I fear will
last out his life! nay! I believe as you
never did, never could love woman! He
loved me from the very moment he first
set eyes on me; it was long ere he
knew it—he scarce knows even now
how he loves me!”
“As a sister, doubtless!” answered
Arthur Gordon, with a sneer; yet so far
now impressed by her manner, that he
was satisfied there was neither guile in
her words, nor guilt in her heart; although
he could not comprehend to
what she was coming.
“No sir. Not as a sister—as a saint,
rather! As a zealot adores the saint of
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his devotion—as a poet adores the creation
of his fancy; passionately, sir, yet
which you cannot understand—purely!
He would die, sir, to win my love; yet
he would die twenty times, nay, he
would see me dead, rather than see me,
much less render me, a thing unworthy
of his love! and I would rather die,
Arthur Gordon, than have him fancy for
one moment, as you fancy now, that I
could love him, could entertain one
passing feeling toward any man, that
were unconsonant with honor as a woman,
with duty as a wife! Now are
you answered?”
The young man spoke not, stirred
not, answered not, even with the mute
language of the eye. He stood abashed,
crest-fallen, dumb before her. Conviction
was borne in upon his soul by
every word she uttered. Confusion
smote him as the false accuser, shame
and remorse held him silent.
“Your silence speaks,” she said, after
gazing in his face nearly a minute, “I
am answered. Now listen to me, Arthur
Gordon. I trust, I know, I thank
my God! I am too proud, if not too
pure, ever to do the thing that should
make me know what shame is. But
mark me; if there be aught on earth
which alienates love, it is to be suspected
of not loving. If there be aught on
earth, that engenders evil thoughts in
the heart, it is to be suspected capable
of evil thinking. If there be aught on
earth, that makes a woman doubt herself,
it is to be doubted by him, who
should sustain her; if once she doubt
herself, others will soon have cause to
doubt, to despise her. If I were not so
proud, I should say to you, therefore,
`Make me not that, which you would
not have me!' I am too proud, too
strong, too confident in the right, to say
so. But I do say, `make me not scorn
you, cast you away from me, hate you.'
I could do all these things Arthur Gordon,
and though they kill me, I will do
them, if ever more I hear from your
tongue, or see in your eye a doubt of
my honor—of my love. I have said
enough—should have said too much
had I not seen in you aforetime, the
germs of this folly, which, if not nipped
in the bud, will make you, will make
both of us indeed wretched. Now I
will go and join our hostess; and do
you seek the partizan and decide upon
our future movements.”
He raised his eyes slowly to meet her
glance, and as he met it no longer fiery
or indignant, but full of confidence and
love, a faint smile played over his lips,
and he stretched out his arms half-timidly
toward her, with this one word,
“Julia!”
And she refused not the proffered
embrace, but fell on his bosom, and kissed
him tenderly, and then withdrawing
herself gently from his arms, said with
her own bright beaming smile,
“Now go; go your way, silly boy,
and beware how you let that noble man
perceive your folly.”
“He should not for my life,” answered
the young dragoon, as with a light
heart, a firm step, and a mind perfectly
reassured and easy, he went forth by one
door, into the courtyard as she passed by
the other into Margarita's boudoir.
CHAPTER XIV. THE PARTING SUPPER.
When Arthur Gordon issued out into
the quiet court-yard, he found the partisan
tranquilly superintending the preparations
of the dragoons, who had
already lighted a fire near the fountain,
and having rubbed down their chargers,
which were busy about better provender
than they had enjoyed for many a day,
were now making their arrangements
for the night.
“I have taken all necessary precautions,”
he said, as the young lieutenant
approached him. “Your lady's baggage
and her palfrey must be left here,
and the latter will be tended by my good
friend Francisco here, who has promised
to look after her. The spare dragoon
horse has been shot already by my
orders. I have reduced your men to
the lightest marching order, and we
must be off within two hours.”
“What are your plans? Are we all
to move together; can not one of us,
you or I, or one of the men at least, remain
to protect her?”
“Impossible! nay it were worse than
impossibility, it were actual, utter madness!
Without me you could not find
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your way ten miles, nor would you
know which way to turn in the forests,
through which I shall guide you. Without
you, the dragoons would turn mutinous!
Even now they are half sullen,
and disinclined to obey me. Moreover,
one man, or ten for that matter, would
be powerless to defend her, while their
presence would but breed suspicion, and
induce discovery.”
“I suppose you are right,” said the
young soldier musing deeply. “Yet it
is dreadful—dreadful to leave her here
alone and undefended.”
“Undefended! I say nay to that.
She is better defended by the truth and
loyalty, and gratitude of that young
Spanish maiden, than by a score of
broadswords.”
“I do not know,” said Gordon, pondering.
“I am not so sure of that truth
and loyalty of which you speak.”
“I will pledge my honor! I would
stake my soul upon them!” said the
partisan, eagerly.
“Aye!” answered the young officer,
still half abstracted, and busy about
his own thoughts—“aye! but you are
by no means clear-sighted—”
“I?—I not clear-sighted?” exclaimed
the partisan, actually startled out of
his wonted gravity of manner. “If not
I, I should like to know who the devil
is clear-sighted. Why, I can see as far
with my naked eye as you can with
your finest glass; and my rifle—”
“Is as true as your heart, Partisan,”
interrupted Gordon, laughing in spite of
the gravity of his own heart, and the
dark aspect of affairs around them.—
“But that is not what I meant at all. I
meant your clear-sightedness as to women.
You know absolutely nothing
about them. You have not seen what
all of us saw at a glance. This pretty
Margarita loves you, Pierre, and—”
“Loves—me!”
“Aye! with the whole depth, and
strength, and intensity of a Spanish woman's
heart. Aye! and as every Spanish
woman does, who loves at all, she
loves you almost to distraction, and is
jealous of you, almost to madness.”
“You are mad, I believe,” replied
Pierre Delacroix, gravely. “I never
heard such nonsense in all my life.—
Why I am old enough to be her father,
and rough enough to be a bear. How
the devil should any woman, let alone
one so young and soft and beautiful, love
such an one as I?—and jealous too.—
I should like to know of whom can she
be jealous.”
“Of Julia.”
“Of your wife!—oh! you are mad.
Why she knows she is your wife. I
told her so myself. You will make me
mad next. Why I never spoke ten
words to the girl in my life.”
“I don't care if you never had spoken
one. I tell you, Julia knows it as well,
sees it as plainly as I do.”
“Knows what?—sees what?”
“Knows and sees that Margarita de
Alava loves you, and is jealous of her.”
“I suppose you will tell me next that,
I am in love with both of them, and
both of them with me!” cried the old
soldier, who was now becoming half indignant.
“By the Lord! I believe that
you are making mockery of me.”
“On my honor! my good friend, it
is not so. I pray you, I beseech you,
hear me. We have the highest trust—
the most unbounded faith in your wisdom,
your bravery, your honor, your
sagacity, in so far as men are concerned;
but I doubt your perspicuity with
women. Now it is certain that she loves
you, and is jealous of my wife—whom,
as God is my judge, I would trust to
your care, unhesitating, to guide and
guard her all alone, through miles and
miles of wilderness! Now grant that
this is true, can she betrusted? Will not
her jealousy of Julia outweigh her gratitude
to you? Will she not betray her
to rid herself of a rival?”
“I don't know,” answered the Partisan,
gravely, with the air of a man, on
whose mind some new light is gradually
dawning. “I know nothing of the mind
of women. If she is capable of loving
me herself, and of suspecting me of
loving your wife, otherwise than as a
sister, I should think she must be capable
of anything.”
Again Gordon could scarce refrain
from laughing at the singular simplicity,
and want of comprehension on the part
of one, in other respects, so shrewd and
so sagacious. But he could only answer,
“Your own sincerity and virtue,
Pierre, blind you, it seems, to half the
wickedness and folly of this world. For
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the rest women often see farther into
women's hearts than men.”
“And does Julia Gordon, does your
wife, see this—which you think you see—
in the heart of Margarita?”
“Pierre Delacroix, she does.”
“Then ask her, if she thinks her
worthy to be trusted. I'll none of it. I
think you are all mad together.”
“That advice, at least, I will follow,”
said Gordon. “They have been alone
together, now, nearly an hour. Let us
go in, and speak with them.”
And as he said the words, the door
was opened, and the old shepherd made
his appearance, and called on them to
enter, for the supper was served.
They instantly obeyed the summons,
chiming as it did with their previous intention,
and in a moment were again in
the presence of their fair hostess, and
her no less beautiful guest.
Both the young women had altered
their dress, the Spanish girl having arrayed
herself in the peculiar and becoming
garb of her country, all black
from head to foot, with the high comb
and flowing veil, silk petticoat and lace
mantilla, and all that beseemed a maiden
of high birth and breeding; while
Julia had merely laid aside her riding
hat and re-adjusted her disordered ringlets.
Both looked, however, surpassingly
beautiful; and it might well have
been a matter of doubt, which bore
away the belle, although so different in
character and style of beauty.
It was a singular scene. The large
marble-paved unfurnished hall, with its
unadorned plaster walls, and the great
black oaken beams overhead, without a
curtain to the tall casements, or a carpet
on the marble floor, would have
been the very picture of desolation and
even poverty, had it not been for the
gaily colored cloaks and blankets, the
plumbed hats, and glittering weapons,
the silver-plated saddles, and polished
bridles, which hung, here and there,
from the large stagantlers attached to
the heavy joists which upheld the roof.
Even more than these, however, though
they flashed and flickered merrily in the
red light of the charcoal stove, in the
yellow blaze of the waxen torches, and
in the pale beams of the now setting
moon, all these strangely contrasted,
did the supper table and its appendages
give an appearance of comfort, almost
of wealth and luxury, to what had been
otherwise most bare and barren.
The board, which was large enough
to have accomodated ten or twelve persons,
was spread with damask of unsullied
brightness; the forks, the candlesticks,
the covers were all of massive
silver; the glass was all of the finest
quality, heavy and clear as crystal.
Two or three flasks of Spanish wine
were displayed on the table, and several
chargers smoked with the favorite
national dishes, while bread of ivory
whiteness and fruits of many kinds,
choice and rare in our northern climes
but these things in ordinary use, were
piled in pyramids, on plates of gilded
silver.
In strange contrast to this appearance
of solidity and wealth were the scanty
costumes, the unshodden feet, the age,
the decrepitude, and the poverty of the
two servitors, who now alone waited
upon the last heiress of the once proud
house of de Alava.
But not more proudly, nor with a
loftier and more stately dignity of air
and aspect, could the courtliest senora
of that house have welcomed guests to
her board in the palmiest days of Mexico,
than did the last heiress of their
fallen fortunes, but still famous name,
demean herself toward her suppliant
visitors.
To Julia, indeed, she was now all
blandness. Her manner to her was
more than kind. It was even sisterly.
The partisan she treated as an old and
valued friend, and Gordon as an honored
stranger. But no person, who beheld
her on that evening, doing the honors
of her house and table, could have
suspected for a moment that she was
aware of the many sad deficiencies,
which were but too apparent in the
whole menage; much less that she felt
herself in some sort degraded, as the
scion of a ruined house, as the child of
a half-conquered country, entertaining
the sons and daughters of a wealthier
and more fortunate land, the enemies
of her race, the subjugators of her people.
There was none of the wild fiery vehemence,
now, in her manner, which
had been so apparent on the first entrance
of her visitors. If she had not
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subdued, she had at least controlled her
feelings; and, if she were but playing
a part, she was playing it at least with
consummate energy and skill.
General conversation there could, of
course, be none, between persons who
had, save two, never met before; and
who had scarce a feeling or a thought
in common. They spoke, therefore, of
the chances and perils which it had been
Julia's lot to run within the last few
days; and here Margarita, although she
pretended not to feel aught but detestation
for the war itself, contempt for the
alleged causes of that war, and bitter,
bitter animosity toward all those that
waged it, spoke feelingly, and cordially,
and generously to her guest.
To some vague words, which fell
from the lips of Gordon, touching the
probabilities of an early peace, she
replied quickly:—
“Never, never, Senor Lieutenant!
You know it, and I know it! Your
people never turn an eye or a thought
backward—and mine will never yield
an inch! You may butcher us all with
your terrible artillery! You may
sweep us all from the face of God's
earth! but you can never conquer us!
Who ever yet conquered a Spanish people?
What the great captain of the
world, the greatest of ten centuries,
could not accomplish with his hundreds
of thousands in the Old Spain, you with
your tens of thousands will fail to do
in the New. You may make our cities
into heaps of ruins, our plains into
charnel houses! you make solitude and
call that `Peace,' but you will never
make us slaves. But I am wrong,” she
added, in a minute; “I am very wrong
to speak of these things. This is one
of those short, happy moments, moments
of peace and pleasure, called
from the midst of war and misery; one
of these moments of chivalrous and
courteous feeling even between mortal
foes, which makes us know and feel,
that even in all his vices, man has something
of good and godlike—that even
in all its horrors, life, even life in warfare,
has something good and noble.”
She paused, and filling a cut-glass
goblet with fine old wine of Xeres, she
raised it to her lips, and barely touching
it with them, passed it to Pierre, bowing
her head, and saying, solemnly:—
“And now, in test of my good faith
to you and yours, I drink to you, don
Pedro, who first taught me the lessons
that even mortal enemies may have
courtesy, and even Americans show
mercy.”
The blood rose hot to Gordon's
cheek, as she uttered those proud words;
but she was a woman, and his tongue
was tied; his hostess and he was bound
to silence. The Partisan, however,
bowed his head, and drank the wine in
silence; but when he had finished the
draught, he said, calmly, “I trust that
time, dear lady, will teach us all much
that we know not now. Even by such
encounters men learn to prize each
other, as foes worthy of their steel.
And it may be, even of this cruel war
we may be rendered better friends hereafter.”
“Cruel war!” she replied. “Cruel
war, indeed! But I think you know
not how cruel. It is not only that you
conquerors, you foreigners, yourselves
are cruel to us; but that you make us
Mexicans cruel to one another. Know
you that, for this thing, which I have
done this night, my life, and my brother's
life, and the lives of all our kin
are forfeit—nay! but the lives of every
servant of my house, from the old man
of a hundred, to the babe that was born
yesterday. Such is the proclamation
of Carrera, and to the letter will it be enforced,
against all those who harbor, or
protect or feed, or succor an American!”
“Great God! and have I brought
this upon thee, Margarita?”
“I thank God that you have,” she
answered. “For thus only can I prove
it to you, that I am indeed grateful.”
“No! no! It is impossible,” said
Gordon. “He may threaten such
things, but he dare not perform them.”
“And yet,” she answered coldly,
“methinks I have read that such is the
law of war! And whether it be or no
it is a just law! Death to the foe who
treads, arms in his hands, upon the soil
of Mexico; and tenfold death to the
traitor who lends him countenance!”
Her beautiful brow was knitted
fiercely as she uttered those strong
words with fiery vehemence; her eye
seemed to flash lightning, and she bit
her lip till the blood almost sprang beneath
the pressure of her ivory teeth.
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The partisan gazed at her silently
for a little space, and sadly; and when
he again addressed her, it was in a
smothered voice, and with a quivering
lip.
“And I have brought this doom on
thee; and thou art a traitress, Margarita?”
“A traitress to my country, aye!
or to my country's rulers! but to my
heart, to my conscience, to my faith,
true as the truest patriot! Here, not
to be a traitress, were blacker shame
than to be a traitor, such as your Arnold.”
“And will they indeed enforce such
sanguinary edicts?” asked Gordon eagerly.
“Listen,” she answered. “It was
scarce one hour before your horses trod
the pavement of our court yard, that
more than a hundred horse went forth,
with my own brother at their head,
Juan de Alava, and the old hero Padre.
Their errand was, first to make prisoners
of you, who now sit as friends
around the table, when they supped at
nightfall; and, second, to wreak the
vengeance of this law on certain
wretches, who have supplied your generals
with food, and guided your men
through our country.”
“And had they not done so,” said
Gordon, gravely, “our generals would
have burned their houses, and driven
off their herds.”
“Even such a thing is war!” said
Margarita, “a war at least of invasion!”
But Julia, who had been listening
in ently to every word that had passed,
now arose calmly to her feet, and said
in a low, determined tone—
“Let us go forth! Let us go forth, if
it be to certain death! This doom will
not I bring on any house, on any head,
that protects me! Let us go forth,
Partisan, I say! I will not tarry here,
let what may come of it!”
But Margarita sprang up, yet more
earnestly, and cried, “Hear me! Hear
me! You must tarry now. For if evil
be, that evil is already done! For you
to fly hence now, is to make capture
certain; and of capture must come discovery,
and of discovery death! The
crime, if crime it be already is committed;
already are all our lives forfeit!
Add not your own destruction to my
ruin; or rather, by your own destruction,
make not my ruin certain. Speak
for me, good Don Pedro, speak for me!
My friend, my preserver, speak for me!
am I not right, do not I speak truly?”
“She does, indeed,” replied Pierre,
mournfully. “I have done much amiss
in this, but of heaven's truth I thought
not of it. But when she calls upon me
thus, I must reply; she does, indeed,
speak truly. Gordon, your wife must
tarry here, close-hidden; to move her
hence were to destroy both! But we
must go hence instantly! I command
here, and I say instantly, by heaven!
Our only hope is to bring force enough
to save them both, and I will do it, or
my name is not Pierre Delacroix.”
“Bring force? what force, Don
Pedro?” asked the girl; “an American
force, do you mean?”
“I do mean it, Margarita.”
“Then you must swear that they
shall neither draw a sword, nor fire a
shot, except in self-defence, or in her
defence, from the hour when they shall
follow you to the rescue, until they
shall be safe within their lines at Monterey.
It is thence that you will bring
them up.”
“It is! I will swear it!” said the
Partisan, colly.
“You will swear it, upon your
honor!”
“As a soldier, and a man, upon my
honor!”
“I am content; I will guard her as
my sister, as my life! No harm shall
come to her, save through my life!
You shall find her safe when you return,
or you shall find us together!”
“Happen what may for this, God
will bless you, Margarita?”
“And will you sometimes think—
sometimes pray for me?”
“I will think of you to my dying
day—I will pray for you, love.—”
“Love!” she exclaimed, again blushing
fiery red;” “Love me! No! no!
that never, never can be!”
And breaking off, without giving him
a chance to reply to her, she hastened
across the room to the place where
Gordon and Julia were conversing earnestly
and she half tearfully, together;
and laying her hand lightly on the
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young wife's shoulder, said to her tenderly—
“And will you trust yourself, when
your friends, and he you love, are gone,
with poor Margarita!”
“As I would with him,” she answered
enthusiastically, casting one arm
over Gordon's shoulder; and, pointing
with the other hand to Pierre, she added,
“or with him, and you know how he is
to be trusted!”
“Thank you, thank you, dear lady,”
she replied, “clasping her in her arms
affectionately, and kissing her brow as
she might have done a child's. “Your
trust shall not be deceived. I will die
for you.” Then she turned round to
Gordon, and continued, “And will you
trust her with me? You—who must
love her so tenderly—for whom she has
dared, and done such beautiful, brave
things. Will you leave her in my
charge, so young, so beautiful, so tender?
You, her young husband?”
“I will—I will;” answered the soldier;
but his voice faltered, and sounded
hoarse and husky as he did so. “I
will, as indeed I have no choice; and
may God so deal with you as you are
true to her or false.”
“I false! I false!” she replied hastily,
almost fiercely. “But let that
pass. Do you, can you trust her to me,
willingly, freely, fearlessly?”
“Not fearlessly; not fearlessly; how
could I leave her fearlessly? Freely I
do, and willingly, as heaven hears me!
for he has told me of you;” and he
pointed to the partisan, “has pledged
his honor for your truth.”
“Have you?” she said, looking to
Pierre tenderly. “Have you? that was
well done! Your honor is safe, Pedro!”
“I know it,” he said, gloomily. “I
know it, Margarita Yet, I think we
shall never meet again,” he added, in
a whisper.
“We shall—we shall meet again!”
she exclaimed, almost triumphantly.
“If not on earth, there, there, where
there are no wars, and no enemies,
where we shall part no more for ever!”
“Amen!” replied Pierre. “God
grant that we meet both here and hereafter!”
There are sceues of mortal sorrow,
mortal agony, which no pen save that
of inspiration can describe adequately.
That which ensued was one of those;
and, like the Greek painter of old, we
will draw the veil of silence over that
which speech cannot portray.
Two hours later, and the horse
tramps of the dragoons had died away
in the distance, and Julia had wept
herself into forgetfulness of her sorrows,
on the bosom of Margarita.
CHAPTER XVI. JUAN DE ALAVA.
The morning, which followed the departure
of Pierre Delacroix and his companions
from the ruined rancho, dawned
as serene and gentle as the waking
of a new-born child. The sun was not
yet up above the tree-tops, which surrounded,
at a short distance, the lonely
dwelling-house of Margarita; but though
a soft blue shadow still lay over the deep
greenwood and rich barky thickets of
the garden, and though the arches of
the forest were filled with a thick mist,
the cloudless sky above was resplendent
with golden lustre. The air was vocal
with the song of birds, and the soft music
of a distant waterfall, came gratefully
to the ear blent with the fitful murmur
of the breeze among the billowy
branches.
Such were the sounds which hailed
Julia, as she awoke from her slumbers;
and for a little while as she lay in that
half conscious state, which will sometimes
intervene between perfect sleep
and perfect wakening, accustomed as
she had been for weeks to the sounds
of the forest, she fancied that she lay in
the litte tent which had so long been
her dwelling, perhaps dreamed that her
young husband slept beside her.
Suddenly she stretched out her hand,
and feeling that she was alone, started
at once from her sleep with a little cry,
and sat up in bed thoroughly aroused.
It was a minute or two, however, before
she could sufficiently collect her
thoughts to be satisfied where she was,
or how she had come thither. It was
not merely the bewilderment which often
comes upon us, when awakening
for the first time in a strange place, unconscious
of the change of scene, for
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here, as she look around the chamber,
her eye failed to assist her memory.
So short a time had she remained
awake on the previous night, when she
retired to rest after the departure of her
friends, worn out by fatigue and sorrow,
that she had in fact scarcely surveyed
the room at all; and now she recognized
none of its features, although there was
something half familiar in it to her senses,
as if at some time or other, she had
seen it in a dream. For in truth, it was
the very chamber which the partisan
had described to her as that wherein
he had first beheld Margarita de Alava
amid the din and desolation of warfare.
Now all was calm and cool and silent,
except for the soft and pleasant sounds
which I have mentioned, yet in all respects
else the room and its arrangements
were unaltered. The massive
sculptured bed on which she lay, with
the light draperies of gauze festooned
in graceful curves around her; the exquisitely
carved crucifix of ebony and
ivory in a niche at the bed's head, and
in a smaller one, below it, the vase of
holy water; the fine old paintings in
rich frames upon the walls; the quaint
antiquely formed chairs and settees, the
tables with distorted legs, relics of a
past age, all met her eyes as something
which she must have seen before,
though where, she knew not.
There were books too upon the tables,
and instruments of music, and implements
of female industry, and vases
of fresh flowers, filling the air with a
pleasant perfume, and fifty other things
which indicated the habitual presence
of a refined and cultivated woman. It
must not be supposed that this uncertainty
continued long—not so long even
as it has taken us to describe it—nor
was it altogether an absolute doubt, so
much as a vague unconsciousness of
reality, which gradually yielded to the
powers of memory.
Before she had, however, fully collected
herself, a soft voice was heard singing
without, in a soft melancholy tone,
the exquisite old Spanish strain, “Rio
Verde, Rio Verde,” commemorative
of the death of brave Alonzo de Saavedra
in a wild foray with the moor, which
has been rendered into English, scarcely
interior to the original in melody and
pathos,
Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo, thy banks are stained with gore, &c.
There was a singular pathos in the accents
and expression of the singer, nor
is it by any means improbable that the
misfortunes of her own land, prostrate
in spite of all the efforts of her bravest
sons beneath the iron heel of the invader—
her own land, every stream of
which had been well nigh choked with
native carnage, suggested themselves to
the singer so forcibly to her, as to render
accents naturally soft and pathetic,
plaintive in the extreme, and full of deep
melancholy.
A moment afterward the song ceased,
the door flew open, and Margarita de
Alava entered with her superb black
hair tightly braided round her brow,
her slender girlish form lightly arrayed
in a white linen dress, and her small
white feet unslippered. She carried in
her hands a little tray with chocolate
and sweetmeats, and little rolls of snow
white bread, and cool water from the
spring, and as she set them on the table,
she turned with a sad smile toward the
bed, saying, “You must pardon me,
lady, if I perform these little offices myself
and intrude my services upon you,
for the fortunes of war have imposed the
task of such light labors on me, happier
than many of my sisters, who are reduced
to utter penury and ruin.”
“Pardon me rather, dear Margarita—
for so you must let me call you—
that I permit you thus to wait on one,
who is so far in every way beneath you.
Except,” she added, with a winning
smile, “that in all times and countries
the character of a suppliant has been
invested with a sort of mournful dignity.”
“Is it so, lady? is it so, indeed?”
cried Margarita, half eagerly, half sorrowfully.
“No! no! I fear me, such
things are but the generous coinings of
the poet's brain. Who ever heard, who
ever felt, ever revered the dignity of a
suppliant nation? But no! no!” she
continued, in a prouder strain, with her
pale cheek kindling as she spoke, “fallen
she may be, vanquished, down-trodden,
overrun! but Mexico is not, nor
ever shall be suppliant!”
“Alas!” said Julia, deeply moved by
the constant pre-occupation of Margarita's
mind by the thought of her
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country's sorrow, which became but the
more perceptible the longer they were
in company. “Alas! that I could console
you! but in such cases consolation
in insult! and yet I would pray you to
believe that there are noble and just and
wise hearts among my countrymen who
see, who deplore in this sad war, the
shame not of Mexico, but of America—
who abhor the laurels stained with the
blood of weak though desperate valor!
I would tell you that even among the
soldiery whose swords have hewed the
deepest into your steadfast ranks, there
are more than a few, who distrust the
justice of their country's cause, while
they maintain their country's honor;
who, while they exalt in the trained
valor of our armies bear honest testimony
to the strong defence, the unflinching
valor, the impassive hardihood of
yours!”
“You are generous to say so, lady!
and why should I not believe you?
There are good men, and wise and
brave in all nations, as there are base,
and bloodthirsty, and brutal. But believe
me, it is easier to be generous to
a downfallen enemy than to a conquering
foe. But come, will you not rise,
and break your fast, and then, if you
please, we will go out, and I will show
you what was once a very lovely garden,
and now is a very lovely wilderness,
and initiate you into the mysteries
of our every day life in Mexico.”
“But may I not speak farther with
you on this subject?” asked Julia, as
she arose, and proceeded to the ordering
of her simple toilet. “It seems to
me, that even if such subjects be painful,
we get rid of prejudices by conversing
on them, and perhaps learn to
love each other the better, for that we
have once been opposed in hostility.”
“It may be so, where the foes are
evenly matched, and the fight fairly
fought. It may be so with the victor's
thoughts toward the vanquished. But
believe me, believe me, the outraged,
trampled, beaten victim never can learn
to love the hand, though he may fawn
on it, which smote him. You may
have learned to think better of us, lady,
because I have heard tell that you
deemed us a poor, barbarous, base, cow
ardly, and cruel people; that you believed
our conquest would be boodless,
our subjugation easy and complete,
And lo! it has cost you the best blood
of your land, and though beaten at all
points, we are not, nor ever shall be
subjugated. Extirpate our race, annihilate
our blood, abolish our faith and
our tongue, you may, perhaps; but in
centuries, not years. Subjugate us, you
can never! Who ever saw a people
subjugated that were resolved to be
free?”
“But are you free, Margarita? I
have heard much of the oppression of
your military rulers, of the tyranny of
your great nobles, of the misery and
degradation of your people.”
“Dreams, lady! dreams or falsehoods!
Our people have all the freedom
they desire, all they are fit for?
And if not, where is the slave who
would not rather be a slave under his
native lord, than a freeman by compulsion
of a foreign ruler. No, dearest
lady, no. Those cries, those pretexts,
are the old legend, one and all—the
wolf's complaint against the lamb. The
plea of the oppressor against the oppressed
is ever fraud. And in all ages,
from the earliest, strong men have
coveted the goods, and preyed upon
the substance of the weak, and mighty
nations have despised the rights, and
devoured the very existence of small
countries; but, lady, God has judged
them for it, and will judge them for
ever.”
“We believe,” replied Julia, simply,
“that the judgments of the Great Ruler
are meted out to man, not here, but
hereafter; not in this world, but in the
world that is to come.”
“So do we, lady. So do we, also,
to men; but not to nations! To nations
there is no hereafter; for nations
there is no world to come. I have
heard wise men of my country say, long
years ago; aye, I have heard that it
was said years and years ere you or I
were born, that for the cruelies of our
race, in past time, to the poor Indians—
for the atrocities of Cortez, of Pizarro,
and their Spaniards—God would repay
to us vengeance an hundred fold, and
lo! the beginning of the payment!
Lady, I have lived to see our fields untilled,
our houses heaps of ruins, our
rivers red with blood, our brothers
slaughtered in the field, our sisters
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outraged in their dwellings. I look to see
our cities level with the ground, or
worse: yet occupied, inhabited by the
invader; our altars desecrated; our
priests banished from their shrines;
our faith, our language, nay, our God
proscribed; and our people, the last
remnant of our race, fugitives on the
hills, dwellers with the wild goat and
wolf, even as the Aztecs were of old. I
look to see all this! But is our nation
guiltless? I have heard say that your
puritans, your Yankees of New England,
hunted your red men with as
keen a sword as our believers; that
they burnt whole tribes in their strong
holds—exterminated a whole race from
the very face of the green earth. I
have heard say that your government
does so still; that the Indian has no
rest, day or night, but still goes westward,
westward like the sun, like him
to set at last in the western sea. Lady,
I have heard tell of whips, and chains,
and slavery, in your proud land of
freedom! And for these things the
day shall come when God shall judge
you, even as he now judges us! May
He be merciful in that day to you and
yours, as he has in this trial to me and
mine, and may in that day raise up to
you and yours a defender and a saviour;
I will not say from my people.”
“As he has done now; as he has
done now;” cried Julia, bursting into
a fit of passionate tears; “in you who
thus protect me.”
“I thought not of that, dear lady.”
“Julia! Julia!” she cried implo
ringly. “Will you not call me Julia?
I called you Margarita; dear, dear
Margarita.”
“Julia; dear Julia, then,” replied
the Spanish girl, soothingly; “believe
me I thought not to wound you; but
my heart bleeds, my heart burns, when
I think of my country, and her wrongs.
Oh God!” she added, stamping her
foot on the marble floor with a strange
revulsion of feeling, and clenching her
small delicate hand, “Oh, God! that I
were a man!”
Julia's flesh quivered, as she heard
her speak, and she felt that singular
sensation of the hair creeping, as it
were, and bristling on the head, which
any sudden rousing of the nobler sentiments
at times produces in high and
nervous natures; and her throat seemed
to rise and swell, and her eyes were
filled with tears, though she wept not.
“And what could you do, Margarita,”
she said softly, “if you were a man?
what could the bravest man that ever
lived do for your country now? Do you
dream that, were you a man, you could
save her?”
“I could die for her!” answered the
other, still full of vehement and overwrought
feelings; when, at the very instant
of her fiery and eloquent reply, she
started, shivered in every limb, turned
paler than the drifted snow, and seemed
to be on the point of falling.
“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed in
a low whisper, “heard you that?”
“Heard I what?” cried Julia, terrified
beyond expression at the sudden
change in her tone, manner, and countenance.
“I hear nothing but the wind,
the birds, the waterfall!”
“There! there again!” said the
other, standing erect and motionless,
with her finger upraised, her head
thrown a little backward, her lips apart,
her nostrils dilated, her eyes fixed on
vacancy. “There! there it is again!
They are coming!”
“In God's name, what do you hear?
who are coming?” almost shrieked
Julia, so fearfully were her nerves excited
and unstrung.
“That bugle! that Mexican bugle!”
answered Margarita; and, at the same
moment, the long wailing note of a
bugle rose faintly in the distance, so
faintly that even now it scarcely reached
the ears of Julia, although her companion,
more accustomed to the sound,
had recognised it long before.
Faint as it was, however, poor Julia
knew it instantly. It was the same
note she heard so often on that awful
day, when the lancers of Carrera were
engaged, hand to hand, with the Camanches,
scarcely a gunshot from her
hiding-place.
“Carrera!” she faltered, almost
fainting with excess of terror, “Is it
not Carrera?”
“It is Carerra's lancers.” was the
short stern reply of the Spanish girl,
“and that said, all is said. We are
lost! They are here!”
She added the last words hastily, for
as she paused, the sharp clatter of
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half-a dozen horses entering the court-yard
at a gallop, and the jingling clash of
accoutrements, told as plainly as words,
that the cavalry were upon them.
An instant afterward, the jingling of
spurs, and the clang of a steel scabbard,
on the stone pavement of the outer-room,
was heard approaching the door
quickly.
Then Margarita's face lightened for
a moment, as she sprang to meet the
new comer.
“It is Juan!” she cried; “it is my
brother! and thanks be to God, alone!”
The door flew open, and on the threshold
stood the young guerilla. It was
the form of the Antinous, without his
effeminacy—it was the head of the conquering
Bacchus, without his sensuality.
A specimen more perfect of young manhood
never walked the earth. His rich
golden skin, his clustering black locks,
his deep dark eye, his high and massive
forehead, composed the very beau-ideal
of that type of manly beauty. His broad
round chest, thin flank, and shapely
limbs, all displayed to the utmost, by his
magnificent costume, promised a world
of agility and power.
His broad-brimmed hat, with its long
drooping plume, cast a yet deeper shadow
over the upper part of his face, from
which his eyes shone out with a strange
radiance; but there was nothing in it
fierce or angry. A dark crimson blanket
hung carelessly from his right shoulder,
half concealing the green velvet
jerkin, with its rich embroideries, and
the deer-skin pantaloons, open below the
knee, all slashed and fringed with gold;
but all the left side of his person was
exposed to the light as he paused on the
the threshold. And the first sunbeams
glittered on the hilt of the long straight
sword, which hung from his side, on the
butts of a pair of heavy pistols, and the
bright handle of a formidable stiletto in
his girdle.
There was wonder in his face, and
something that almost resembled awe, as
he gazed on the two beautiful young women,
but no fierceness of menace.
He was the very image, but cast in
a manlier and more stately mould, of
Margarita.
His eye, his features, his expression
were all hers, with all her tenderness,
her softness—almost, I had said, her
girlishness.
Yet, unless rumor lied, and in his
case it was never so believed, deeds
had been done by that soft, beardless,
tender, girlish youth, that would have
well entitled him to the fame of a hero,
or a Cataline.
“Madrc de Dios! who is this?
“Brother! Juan! brother!” exclaimed
Margarita, seizing him in her
arms, and striving to embrace him.
“What have you done, mad girl?
Who is this, I say, who is this, Margarita?”
“A suppliant, a fugitive, a friend, a
sister, a sister of the Partizan—of Pedro,
my brother, Pedro el Salvador!”
“An American,” he said slowly, his
brow gradually uniting into a black
frown, as he uttered the word, and his
eye growing lurid with a sort of concentrated
fire, then laying his hand on the
hilt of his stiletto, he muttered through
his set teeth, “She must die!”
“Never! no! for your life! for my
soul! for the name of God! for the
most holy virgin! no, brother, no! not
while I live! He brought her here!
He who preserved your life, and my
honor! He asked me to protect her!
and I swore it by my mother's soul!
and I now swear it!”
“Fool!” he almost shouted in his
rage, as he thrust her aside violently,
“Carrera will be here within ten minutes,
and all our lives are forfeit by
your treason!”
“Better so, than our honor lost!”
But he heeded not her words, but
strode forward with a firm determined
step toward Julia, who had fallen almost
senseless into a large arm chair beside
the bed. His dagger was bare; he
stood close over her, and she had neither
tongue to pray, nor hand to resist.
His arm was raised to strike—the
keen blade flashed in the sunlight as it
descended—but ere it found its living
sheath, another blade, held in as firm a
hand, although it was a woman's, crossed
it! Sparks flashed from the sharp
collision of the steel, and Juan's stiletto
flew to the further end of the room,
wrenched from his fingers by the slight
of his sister's hand.
And she, with her slight form dilated,
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and her face full of glorious inspiration
stood before him, menacing, overcrowing
him.
“Strike her!” she cried, “kill her!
and by the mother of our Lord, the instant
that your dagger finds her heart,
this shall find mine!” and she shook
her own weapon in his face. “This,
which I bear to save myself from dishonor,
has saved my brother from disgrace!”
“She is saved!” said Alava, gloomily,
“but we are lost! or rather we are
all lost together! Think you, Carrera
will spare her for her beauty, or you
for your purity, or me for—my folly?
She is a prisoner; we are traitors! and
we shall all die together!”
“Be it so! we will die together. I
never knew that you feared to die, my
brother! I only fear dishonor!”
“That may precede death,” he replied,
more gloomily than before.
“Carrera's men will make small distinction
between a captive American,
and Mexican traitress!”
“You forget, brother, this can save
me,” and she again showed the weapon,
which she had wielded so boldly, so successfully.
“By your own hand, sister?”
“By yours it were better, Juan!”
“Be it so, we will die together,”
and as he spoke, he walked deliberately
across the room, and picked up his
weapon.
“But why die at all?” exclaimed
Margarita, suddenly, “they will not
tarry long. We can conceal her. In
the niche, you know, in the niche!
Sanchez, and Estefania, and Francisco,
need but a hint to make them as mute
as statues. We can conceal her, brother,
and be saved!”
“He knows that they came hither.
We have traced their hoof-tracks to the
very gate. A wounded soldier saw
them leave their hiding-place, and we
met Carrera on their track. I know
not how we failed to meet them. Besides,
Sanchez has owned that they have
been here.”
“Has he owned that she is here?”
“No. He never named her.”
“Where is he?”
“In arrest.”
“And Estefania?”
“In arrest.”
“And Francisco?”
“And he likewise.”
“Then we are saved.”
“How saved?”
“Go! Tell them, you, to swear that
the dragoons forced our hospitality by
menace, which we could not resist.
They were five strong, young men,
well armed. What could we do?”
“It may save us—who knows?”
“It will save us! Do it! away!
every moment is a life!”
Then, as he left the room in haste,
she sprang up on the bed, touched a
spring in the wall, and the back of the
shallow niche in which the crucifix
stood flew open, turning outward on a
hinge, disclosing a small circular closet,
lighted by a small air-hole, and containing
a low stone bench, wrought in the
wall.
“Up! up!” she exclaimed, shaking
Julia sharply by the arm. “Up! and
in there, or all our lives are forfeit;
and, as you live, whatever you may
hear or see, stir not, speak not, breathe
not, as you prize life and honor!
And aroused from her prostration by
the dreadful emergency, and nerved by
the firmness of the Spanish maiden,
Julia did rise, pale as a ghost, but calm
and firm, and kissed and blessed her
hostess, and mounted into the small
hiding-place, and drew the secret door
close after her.
Nearer and nearer came the bugle
horn, and then the clang of hoofs, the
orders of the officers, the din of the
men dismounting, and the clash and
clatter of their arms.
Hurriedly, in the meantime, had Margarita
thrust aside the few articles of
Julia's clothing which were scattered
about the room, but when she thought
that all was safe, and the steps of the
officers were heard in the outer hall,
she sat down quietly to her embroidery,
and took up again her mournful song,
Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo! the banks are stained with gore,
and was singing tranquilly and unconcerned,
when her brother again entered
the apartment.
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CHAPTER XVII. SPANISH HONOR.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
“Margarita, come forth. The general
Carrera and his staff request your
hospitality.”
“It is even too much honor for us
to give it,” she answered, rising as if
entirely unem barassed; and, throwing
her mantilla around her, for she had
otherwise arranged herself a ready, she
advanced with a calm step and perfect
dignity of mien into the outer hall,
which was now filled by the brilliant
group of officers who had followed the
general, as was the court yard by three
or four hundred perfectly equipped lancers.
There was a mighty doffing of plumed
hats, and bowing to the lovely senorita
as she made her appearance in that
glittering presence, the only unadorned
and simply attired person who stood
there. Many and profound were the
courtly compliments, the professions of
ready service, and the like, in the sonorous
old Castillian tongue; and the general-in-chief
himself was the foremost
in what would, in any other country,
have been pronounced mere lip-loyalty
and mock-adulation.
“I regret deeply,” he said, after a
few moments spent in ordinary compliments,
“that we were unable to arrive
hither a few hours sooner, as our presence
would have, I hear, relieved you
of unpleasant visitors, of whom we
have been in pursuit some days.”
“We had unexpected visitors, indeed,
if not unwelcome,” she replied. “But
to say the truth, they were not uncivil,
and though we had not the power to refuse
them what they asked of us, they
behaved courteously, and but a short
stay.”
“Be sure of that,” answered Carrera,
twisting his moustache; “they
knew that I was at their heels.”
“They did not think, I fancy, that
your excellency was so near them. They
spoke something among themselves of
a skirmish they had seen between your
lancers and the Indians. They hoped
your pursuit of the savages would have
drawn you so far away that you woul
lose a day or two in time.”
“Ah! a trifle, lady, a mere trifle! an
affair of half an hour! We drove
them at the first charge, and had execution
of them for miles. But I rejoice
to hear that the Yankees were courteous,
and it is generous in you to say
so, for I know that you have little cause
to love them.”
“No Mexican has cause to love them—
no Mexican can do aught but hate
Americans through life and to death—
and I am a Mexican!” she said fervently
and proudly.
And so striking was her air, and so
electric her tone, that it spread a contagious
spirit through the gentleman
around, which manifested itself at first
in a low hum, increasing gradually till
it ended in a loud outburst of enthusiastic
vivas.
“But you in particular have cause
to hate them,” said the general, as the
shout subsided. “You have suffered
much at their hands.”
“Much, indeed!” she replied, with a
deep sigh, looking sadly around her.
“But these were not the same.”
“They were Americans.” said Carrera.
“Those were Texans! volunteers!”
“It is the same: Texans, Americans!—
Americans, Texans!—wolves
all of them! accursed people!”
And a volley of execrations succeeded
from all present. Meantime refreshments
were handed around, and apologies
offered for the impossibility of providing
food at so short a notice for all
the men, coupled with a proposal to
kill several sheep and oxen in order to
feed them at night-fall.
This was, however, courteously declined
by the general, on the ground
that they could not spare so much time
from the pursuit.
“They left you early last night, you
say, senorita?” asked Carrera. “At
what hour was it, think you?”
“An hour or two past midnight, I
think,” she replied, simply. “But I
am not sure, for they awoke me from
my sleep, and in truth I took no note
of the time.”
“And they had a lady with them?”
“A very young and very beautiful
lady!”
“They cannot then travel very fast,”
said the general, “wo shall overtake
them before night, gentlemen.”
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“They spoke much of the lady's
courage, and her horsemanship, saying
that she rode as well as the dragoons;
and was so little weary, and, in truth,
she looked neither fatigued nor fearful.”
“Ha! is it so, indeed? Then we
will get to horse at once! Let the
trumpets sound `boot and saddle!' and
with many thanks to you, beauteous
lady, for your hospitality, we will leave
you for the present. If it please fortune,
we will halt here on our return and if
we take the dogs, we will shoot them
here, at the doors of the house they so
brutally destroyed!”
“What, prisoners of war, general?”
faltered poor Margarita.
“Spies, senorita. Death to all spies
and traitors!”
He arose from his chair as he spoke,
and, again bowing, was on the point of
leaving the apartment, and the poor girl
thought that the crisis was past and the
danger over.
When in the very midst of the bustle
and hurry of leave taking, an aid-decamp
rushed in hastily and announced
that the riding horse of the American
lady had been found in the stable of
the rancho well groomed, and feeding
at a well-filled manger.
“Who groomed him?” asked Carrera,
sternly.
“A boy called Francisco.”
“Bring him in.”
And immediately the shepherd boy
was led in between two dismounted
lancers with escopetas trailed in their
hands.
“How came the lady's horse in the
stables?”
“It was tired, lame, who knows?—
they left it behind.”
“Who bade you groom and feed it?”
“No one. It was too good to lose—
American people are a cursed people—
American horses excellent.”
“This may be truth, Valdez,” said
Carrera to the officer who had brought
in the tidings. “The boy speaks steadily,
and to the point.”
But the aid-de-camp replied by a
scarcely perceptible shake of the head,
and the general resumed.
“Do you know, sirrah, the penalty
denounced against all who comfort or
suceor the Americaus?”
“It is death, senor!”
“And do you wish to die?”
“God forbid, your excellency,” stammered
the boy.
“Now mark me, if you speak one
lie you shall be shot to death within five
minutes. If you speak truth, the republic
will reward you. Where is that
lady?”
“Who knows?” was the evasive answer;
but as he uttered it his eyes wandered
to his master's face, as it to consult
his eyes before replying further.
He met their steadfast gaze, and continued
firmly—“She went with the
rest.”
“How went she?”
“They had a spare dragoon horse
with them, loaded with baggage, they
left the baggage, and she rode the horse.”
“There were some tracks, general,”
interposed one of the younger officers,
“and we know that there are but five
men and one woman.”
“Well said, Don Joseph. It is all
right, I fancy, Valdez. Let them sound
horse and away.”
“The lady's horse is quite fresh, and
as sound as a bell; my men are making
further searches, general. I pray you
for a short delay,” said the aid-de-camp.
“Be it so,” he answered sternly.—
and hark ye, Valdez,” he continued,
let six file prime and load, take this dog
down into the court-yard, and if he does
not confess within five minutes, shoot
him.”
The poor boy fell upon his knees and
poured out a volley of misericordias, and
por elamor de Dios, and every possible
form of Spanish supplication, he wept,
he wrung his hands, he tore his hair,
he called upon his master, his mistress
for aid, to save him for the love of God!
but not an offer did he make to reveal
or confess.
A dragoon entered, at this moment,
bearing a lady's side-saddle and bridle,
with girths and hangings all complete
and cast them down at the general's
feet. And then said as he saluted—
“We have found a dragoon horse
dead—shot within a few hours general,
in the corral, with all his accoutrements
upon him.”
Carrera's cold hard eye turned silently
and sternly on the miserable boy.
Speak!” he said, “or die. Take your
choice. Where is the lady?”
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“Quien Sabe?”
“Away with him.”
Two stout dragoons seized him, and
despite his cries, his struggles, and entreaties,
dragged him away as if he had
been a mere infant.
There were five minutes dreadful,
death-like silence. Margarita stood
cold and impassive as a pillar of stone,
with her teeth set, and her hands clenched.
But for the heaving of her bosom,
and the quivering of her eyelid, she
gave no sign of life.
Juan de Alava preserved his soldier's
mien and aspect, but his eye wandered
wildly.
The next moment the sharp rattle of
a volley, succeed by one death groan,
rang through the hall, and the thin blue
smoke drifted in through the open door,
and half filled the apartment.
“Fiel hasta la muerte,” muttered
between his hard set teeth.
“Bring out the other servants,” roared
Carrera, furious at being frustrated.
Give them five minutes, also, to confess.
if they speak not, shoot them.”
After another short pause an orderly
entered and announced that they had
fled into the woods.
“Ha! this lies deeper than I thought
for, lady,” he added turning to Margarita,
“we must have your presence in
an inner chamber. Valdez, call in our
major, and six captains, a court-martial.
Senor de Alava follow us.”
And without more words, he stalked
into Margarita's private chamber, seated
himself in her own arm chair, and,
ordering his officers to form a half circle
round him, proceeded to arraign her as
a culprit.
“You know,” he said sternly, but not
uncourteously. “You know, Senorita,
the doom which our laws have pronounced
against all traitors who comfort,
protect, or harbor an American?”
“Senor, I know it.”
“It is?”
“Death!”
“You are very young to die.”
“I am young, senor. But when God
clls us hence, it is never early.”
A slight murmur of admiration ran
through the circle at her calm and dauntless
resolution; but found no echo from
the cold lips of Carrera.
“There are things worse than death,
senorita.”
“But one.”
“And that is?”
“Dishonor.”
“And do you not fear that?”
“I fear not that which I can never
know.”
“Others may dishonor you.”
“No! one can always die.”
“You are bold, lady.'
“Confident, senor, because prepared.”
“See that you answer what I shall
ask you now, truly.”
“If at all—truly.”
“Where is the lady gone who was
here last night?”
“The boy whom you murdered told
you that she went with the rest.”
“He lied—and lost his life by his
lie!”
She bowed her head and was silent.
“On your honor whither has the lady
gone?”
She looked in his face and was silent.
“On your honor, do you know where
the lady is at this moment?”
“I do know.”
“Where is she?”
“I have sworn to be silent.”
“That oath was treason to your
country.”
“By your proclamation.”
“You know it? You have read it?”
“I do—I have.”
“Enough. One question more, will
you reveal it?”
“I will not.”
“And you know the alternative?”
“Death!”
“And you are prepared to die, so
young, so beautiful, to die a traitress?”
“God will forgive me.”
“Mark me, reveal this, and we at
once pardon yourself and your household—
nay! but your brother, also, who
doubtless knows your guilt.”
“What would be her fate, should I
do so?”
“The will of the conqueror—the
soldier's pleasure.”
“A woman, a lady, and a prisoner of
war?”
“I have spoken, lady.”
“And I, general.”
“Colonel don Juan de Alava, on your
honor, as a soldier and a gentleman, do
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you know where this American woman
now is?”
“I do know.”
“Where is she?”
“Do you think me less firm than a
woman?”
“Have you sworn secrecy?”
“I have not sworn.”
“Speak, I command you.”
He was silent. The general cast his
eyes sternly round the circle, reading
the judgment of each man by his face,
as he asked—
“Are they guilty of high treason?”
And each man nodded in silence as
the question came to him in turn.
“And your sentence?”
“Death!” replied Valdez, standing
up and uncovering, and all the others
arose in their order, and bowed in as
sent.
“General,” said Alava, “you said I
fought well at Palo Alto, again at Resaca
de la Palma—well when I captured
Thornton's horse, and well when I
saved your life from the Partisan. For
these things grant me one boon.”
“Name it.”
“A soldier's death.”
“A traitor's!—kneeling!—shot in
the back! are you answered?”
“General,” said Margarita firmly but
sadly; “I am a woman, a lady, the
daughter of your friend. Two years
ago a band of Texans sacked this rancho
in cold blood, killed my father, my
mother, my two brethren, all our blood
save him and me. Me too they would
have dishonored and then slain. A man,
an American, fought his way in and
rescued me. That man came to my
house last night and asked me: `for your
life which I gave you, for your honor
which I saved you, give me my sister's
life and honor!' I gave them. General,
before I die, a boon.”
“Name it?”
“Her life and liberty.”
“Who was the man?”
“Name him not, for your soul,”
shouted Juan de Alava. But his warning
came too late. She had spoken.
“His name is Pedro the Partisan.”
“Ten thousand furies! His sister!
His!” and as he spoke his olive-colored
face turned crimson with rage. “Give
her up—give her up to me this instant,
or death, which you seem to laugh at,
shall be as nothing to what you shall
undergo. No form of outrage, of indignity,
of dishonor, but the soldiers
shall wreak it upon you; and when you
die you shall hail death that it has
covered you from shame too deep to be
endured. Will you speak?”
“I have spoken.”
“Away with her! Cast her to the
troopers! Let them do with her as
they list!”
“General Carrera, you dare not.”
“And, hark ye, drag him out, also,
and let him look upon her shame, then
shoot him.”
“Never!” exclaimed two voices in
one cry, and as if by one movement
brother and sister drew, and raised on
high, a sheathless blade.
“Brother—sister—adieu!” and the
blades rose as if to strike—but ere the
blow was dealt a calm sweet voice cried
“Hold!”
“Hold! I am here!”
And at the words, there in the ninch
disclosed by the removal of that holiest
emblem, the christian's dying God—
there with her golden tresses floating
dishevelled like a halo of glory round her
with her blue eyes filled with the inaffable
lustre—the lustre of a martyred saint,
her innocent artless features glowing with
strange exultation, her lovely lips apart,
madonna-like, stood Julia Gordon.
“I am here, man of blood! Spare
them! But with me do your pleasure,
I am in the hands of my God, now as
ever.”
“You are in my hands now, my
beauty!” exclaimed the savage exultingly—
“and shall be in my men's
hands in five minutes. Fortunate fellows!
Such a pair of you! Valdez,
why don't you help the lady to descend.
By heaven! you are discourteous.”
The aid-de-camp, apt minister of his
bloody general's brutality arose to obey
his orders, when, at the first step he
took, he stooped short as if thunder-stricken.
His face was as pale as ashes,
his lips wide apart, his knees shaking
under him.
Nor was it wonderful! for as he took
that step, one sharp short crack came
echoing from without, the well-known
death shot of the certain rifle—then
pealed a bugle, high and shrill—the
terrified alarum!—and then crack!
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crack! the rolling, rattling, irregular,
incessant volley of the most murderous
of weapons—the deadly rifle of the
west.
And then, all in one instant's space,
it would seem, the thundering noise of
charging horse, the clang of blades,
the groans, the shrieks, the awful sounds
of horro and of havoe which mark the
hand to hand encounter!
And high above all other sounds, and
high arose the war-cry of the Texans—
“Remember the Alamo, the Alamo!”
and Gordon's name was mingled with
the din, shouted by his dragoons; and
the fierce cheer of the Partisan, “Pierre!
Pierre! charge for Pierre and glory!”
compleated the dismay of the surprised
and baffled murderers.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TEXANS.
As the first din of that surprise fell
on the startled ears of the Mexican
commander, he sprang to his feet quickly
and, to say only what he merits, performed
his duty as a soldier gallantly,
however he had behaved himself as a
man and a gentleman.
“We are surprised!” he said coolly
enough, drawing his sword; “this is the
doing of these traitors but of that hereafter;
to your posts to your posts, gentlemen!
This can but be an insolent
attack of a handful of marauders, whom
we will beat back in a moment. There
is no regular force within thirty leagues
of us. To your posts, I say, away!”
and he rushed instantly into the hall,
which had been vacated already by the
subal erns, who remained in it when
their superiors had convened themselves
to form the court-martial.
All his officers followed his example;
unsheathing their swords, and dashing
forward gallantly to find their men, and
lead them to the charge—all save one,
Valdez—for, as is oftentimes the case,
the cruel and cold blooded savage was
the dastard also.
He drew himself up, it is true, and
set on his plumed hat at the correct
angle, and unsheathed his weapon, but
he made not one step toward the door,
nor even offered to follow his comrades.
“And why does the gallant Colonel
Valdez loiter in the rear, when his men
are in action?' asked Juan de Alava,
sneeringly.
“I might retort the question, sirrah,
were it becoming me to reply to a prisoner
and a traitor.”
“And did you so retort, sirrah,” answered
Alava quietly, “I might reply
that a prisoner has no right to be in
action, did it become me to reply to a
liar and a dastard!”
“This to me?” exclaimed Valdez.
“It shall be answered when your
friends, the Yankees, are driven off.”
“Aye! this to you!” replied Juan.
This and more also! and it shall be
answered sooner!” and he too unsheathed
his rapier, for he had not been
disarmed, owing to the suddenness with
which he had been implicated in the
alleged crime of his sister, and to the
irregularity of his arrest.
“Walk into the hall, Colonel Valdez,
and there I will answer you, if I do soil
an honorable blade with the blood of a
coward!”
“You have the advantage of me!
You are armed with knife and pistols,
as well as with your sword! Besides
you are a prisoner, and not my equal!”
“The gods be thanked therefor!
Now mark me! Before these ladies
whom you have insulted, would have
outraged, I strike you thus! I spurn
you with my foot thus, and thus!' and
as he spoke he suited the action to the
word, giving him a severe blow with
the flat of his sword across the shoulders,
and actually kicking him twice
with his foot.
“Now will you leave the presence
of these women, to which, coward-like,
you cling for protection, or shall I shoot
you, like a dog, before their faces?”
and with the words, he laid his hand
with an ommous gesture on the butt of
one of his heavy pistols.
“No! no! not here, for God's sake!
Oh! not here! not here!” shrieked
Julia Gordon.
“Drag out the dog by the neck, and
shoot him, like a dog, without!” cried
Margarita, sternly; for her Spanish
blood was up, and kindled by the insults
she had undergone; and her heart
was unsexed and merciless.
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And Juan de Alava did step forward,
as if to execute her orders, when
driven to extremity the dastard turned
to bay, and delivered a fierce thrust at
him with his rapier; but it was parried,
and returned on the instant. Both men
were in the prime of life, young, active,
sinewy, and skilful to a wonder in the
use of their weapons. Well matched
in height and reach, had their spirit
been as equally matched as their
strength and stature, it would have
been a combat worthy of a Roman amphitheatre.
As it was, if Juan was as
brave as his own steel, and Valdez a
base coward, the last was still a coward
forced to fight for his life, and such,
proverbially, are dangerous.
Their weapons were the deadliest on
earth; the long, straight, two-edged
sword, fitted alike to cut and thrust,
and the strong, bayonet-bladed stiletto.
Cut followed cut, thrust, thrust, in
quick succession; so quick that the
dazzled eyes of the spectators could not
pursue their course, or note which took
effect, or which were surely parried.
Julia sank down on the bed, and
covered her face with her hands, unable
to look steadily upon a sight so terrible;
but Margarita stood by, with a flushed
cheek, and a flashing eye, and her ruby
lips apart, shewing the pearly teeth hard
set below them; and her soft brow
panting with the fierce excitement.
And ever and anon, as Juan pressed
Valdez hard, and backed him, foot by
foot, out of the chamber into the stone,
paved hall, she followed them, and
clapped her hands at every home thrust
which he sent almost to his heart;
crying, from time to time;
“Kill him! Kill him! Hermano
mio! For my sake, kill him! By no
hand but yours must the villain die!”
Still they fought on, desperate and
determined. Sparks flashed from the
collision of their blades; the sweat fell
from their brows like rain; their breath
was drawn hard, and loud, and painful;
yet neither flatered; this fighting for
his life, and that for vengeance.
And still, without, the sharp, continuous
crackling of the Texian rifles
was blended with the heavy platooning
of the Mexican escopetas; and all the
fearful uproar of a well-balanced battle
thundered and reeled, now nearer, and
now farther, as the victory, for the moment,
inclined to this side or to that.
It was clear that the Mexicans outnumbered
their assailants by vast
odds; but still the superior energy and
strength, and the unerring aim of the
Americans, outbalanced this advantage;
and, by the rapid cracks of the
rifle now overpowering fast the fuller
and more ringing reports of the carabinas,
it was seen that the Rangers
must, in the end, prevail.
Still there was much to be dreaded
by the women; and, by Julia, it was
dreaded. For she knew that the Mexicans
still fought between herself and
her friends; and she felt certain that
should they be driven in, defeated,
they would attempt to make a last stand
in the house, and would again obtain
possession of her person.
So strong did this apprehension grow
up in her mind, as she heard the tide
of fight surging gradually nearer and
nearer, that she overcame, by a mighty
effort, her repugnance to look upon the
deadly strife that was waging close beside
her, and sprang to her feet, calling
Margarita to assist her in opening the
casement, and so escaping into the
garden, where, as yet, all was still and
peaceful.
But the Spanish girl was entranced,
heart and soul,; she was wrapped up
in that dreadful, protracted struggle,
and still fearlessly she pressed up nearer
to the combatants, and Julia could perceive
that she held the keen, two-edged
dagger: which had so short a time before
saved her life, ready in her right
hand, and almost feared that she would
herself strike Valdez. And still she
cried, “Kill him, brother, for my sake!
Kill him! Kill him!”
Hopeless of directing her from her
appalling object, Julia turned, sick at
heart, towards the window; the same
window which had given entrance to
the Partisan, when he arrived but in time
to save Margarita; and at the very moment
she did so, it was driven inward
with a loud crash, and she was clasped
in the arms of Arthur Gordon.
The sound of his forceful entrance,
the clanking steps of his men, for the
three dragoons were at his heels, and
the clatter of his accoutrements had
well nigh proved fatal to Alava; for, at
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the sudden uproar in his rear, he turned
his head quickly, and was admonished
by a sharp wound in his side, of his
imprudence.
“Friends! they are friends!” cried
Margarita, whose quick eye instantly
discovered who were the intruders.
“Now kill him! kill him! on they will
take him to their mercy!”
And, like a wounded lion, Juan de
Alava charged him home so fiercely,
that he had not a second's breathing
time. Three triple feints, each followed
by a home lunge, Valdez had
parried in succession; when he lunged
in return. His foot slipped a little on
the marble floor; his blade was struck
aside by Alava's dagger, at the same
instant in which his chest was pierced,
and his heart cleft asunder, by his
home-driven blade.
Then Margarita drew a long, deep
breath, it was almost a sigh, and said,
in a low, lisping tone—
“Else had I slain him, with a woman's
hand and a woman's weapon!”
Scarce was that fearful death-struggle
completed, when two of the dragoons
advanced their carabines, and called
on Juan to yield him on good quarters.
By the fierce eye and resolved aspect of
the young guerilla, it was clear that, had
his means of resistance been equal to
his will, he would have still resisted—
resisted the enemies of his country as
sternly as he had avenged his own private
grievance fiercely; but he had
lost much blood, and staggered sickly;
and would have fallen but for the sword
on which he leaned.
“Where is your officer?” he asked
in Spanish. “I am a gentleman, and
will not yield, but to an officer.”
“I am an officer,” cried Gordon,
springing forward, having learned, by
one word from Julia, who he was—“I
am your friend, too, Senor Don Juan—
your friend for ever.”
“He is her husband!” whispered
Margarita, “whom you have saved and
avenged.”
“Give me your sword, quick! quick!”
cried Arthur Gordon, springing forward
with the speed of light as he saw the
Spanish soldiery driven back into the
room in confusion, before the desperate
charge of McCulloch's rangers. “Give
them one shot, my lads! make sure
each of his man! and then bring off the
wounded officer, and the lady.”
“I can walk! I can walk!” exclaimed
Margarita, who was as self-collected
as a warrior in the fray. “Look you,
senor, to Julia; and let them bring off
Juan.”
The carbines of the regulars, discharged
at a short range and with deliberate
aim, told fatally. Three men
went down, wounded or slain outright;
and seeing the well-known uniforms of
the American dragoons, they fancied
that they were surrounded; and, panicstricken,
rushed back from three men
to face a hundred.
Turning about, as coolly as if on parade,
two of the men lifted Alava from
the ground to which he had fallen, fainting
from loss of blood, and carried him
off in his own crimson blanket, their
serjeant deliberately halting in the rear
alone to reload his carbine.
Gordon raised Julia in his arms, while
Margarita ran quickly by his side, and
in an instant, they were all in the beautiful
though long neglected garden of
the rancho.
“This way! this way!” she cried.
“I will guide you. There is an arbor
here, in the thicket of oranges, beside
the stream, where they will never find
us, if they search for a twelve-month.”
“Their hands are too full to let them
think of us, lady,” said Gordon. “The
only danger is from stragglers. Ah! true,
it is a secret spot. You will be safe
here with these gallant fellows. So! lay
him down there, softly, softly on the
grass! See, Julia, if you cannot staunch
that bleeding. I'll have a surgeon here
in five minutes. Now, Davis, load your
arms!”
“I am loaded, lieutenant!”
“The devil you are! then let your
fellows load! and do not move hence
for your lives! look to the ladies! I will
return directly. Fear nothing, Julia.
God be with you!”
And he turned on his heel, and was
out of sight in an instant. He had not
taken twenty steps, however, toward
the house, before he met a dozen Mexicans
rushing out from the window by
which his party had escaped; but they
broke as soon as they saw him; scattered
and fled in all directions, most of
them having already thrown away their
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weapons. They were scarce out of
sight, when round the left wing of the
building, driving a panic-stricken mass
of fugitives before him, with his horse,
his sword, his own person, dyed with
carnage, the Partisan wheeled at full
gallop.
“Pierre! Pierre! charge, lads! for
Pierre and glory!” and the response
from behind was, “The Alamo! Texas,
remember the Alamo!”
And hard at his heels charged McCulloch
and Gillespie, and all their daring
rangers.
But utterly dispirited and broken, the
Mexicans rushed in a body to the same
window, by which their comrades were
pouring out; and the two currents meeting
jostled and reeled together, like
tides conflicting in a narrow channel.
But the terror and the numbers of
those without were the greater; and
gradually they forced their way inward,
actually using their weapons, one against
the other, in the madness of their despair.
And still on the rear of that confused
and weltering route raged the
fierce broadswords of the Texan riders.
“Ha! Mason,” exclaimed Gordon,
as the rangers swept past him in their
charge, recognizing a young officer of
his acquaintance. “This work is over
now. For God's sake, send one of your
fellows for a surgeon. A friend of mine
lies badly wounded, yonder, in the
orange thicket, by the stream.”
“Aye! aye!” cried he, whom he
addressed, reining up his horse. “You,
Grayson, gallop to the rear, and bring
up surgeon Maxwell.”
“Yes! sir,” answered the man, reluctantly
enough, “when I've had one
more crack at the rascals.”
“No! sirrah! now.”
But his words were anticipated; for
the man had risen in his stirrups and
discharged his rifle with fatal execution;
and now, as he reslung it and saluted,
he replied civilly:
“Now, sir!” and giving his horse
the spur, dashed away to the rear at
the gallop.
“Of course, your lady is safe, Gordon?”
“Or I should not be here! But I
wish you would send a dozen men down
yonder to that thicket, to mount guard
over her. She is almost alone.”
“I'll go myself,” answered Mason.
“Or the devil a soul will I get to stir,
so long as they can shoot or stick a
Mexican! Halt! dress!—halt! halt!
or, by the Lord! I'll scewer some of
you. That is it. Now steady! steady!
Gordon, I'll see to that, never fear. But
I wish you would gallop down, and stop
this firing. All resistance is at an end,
and it is now mere butchery?”
“I will! I will!” replied the young
dragoon, “there has, indeed, been
enough of it.”
And putting his spurs to a charger,
which he caught, as it ran by him masterless,
he gallopped forward, shouting
to the men to cease firing. But eager
as he was, to check the carnage, he was
preceded in the work of charity by the
bold Partisan, whom he could see,
mounted among the crowd of dismounted
rangers, close to the often mentioned
window, actually cutting at his own
men with his broadsword to enforce
obedience, and shouting, till he was
hoarse, in Spanish and English alternately,
“Cease firing, and give quarter!”
Suddenly, a shot flashed from a loop
above, and he reeled in his stirrups, and
fell headlong.
A fierce roar followed from the soldiery;
and, in an instant, they forced
their way bodily into the building, and
wo to the Mexican whom they met, when
the word was given, “Pierre! and no
quarter!”
“My God! they have murdered
him!” cried Gordon; and, forgetful of
all else, he drove madly to the spot
where he lay, sprang from his horse,
and raised him from the bloody green-sward.
CHAPTER XVIII. A SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED
“They have done for me, at last!”
cried the gallant soldier, as Gordon raised
his head upon his lap, as he knelt behind
him.
“I trust not, indeed.”
“They have. I am a dead man,
Gordon. See! they shot me here,
through the right breast, just above the
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collar-boae, and the ball has gone clean
through me—my vitals are cut all to
pieces!”
“Great God! is it possible?”
“It is certain! But I thank God!
I died in my duty—I died striving to do
good! But I forget, I forget; is your
wife safe?”
“She is, my friend—my more than
friend; my preserver.”
“And Margarita?”
“Safe too and has proved herself a
heroine.”
“Then I die happy. That firing has
ceased, has it not? They have given
them quarters?”
“They have! they have! vex not
yourself about such matters. They are
bringing down the prisoners.”
“You will bear witness for me, when
I am gone, that I strove to check the
butchery.”
“And that they murdered you, while
doing so. Know you who fired that
traitor shot?”
“I do know, Gordon, but I will not
tell you; for I see that in your eye,
which tells me he would dearly rue it.”
“He should die for it, if he were my
brother!”
“Therefore, I will not tell you; there
is blood enough on my soul, already.
Too much of this Mexican blood. But
where is your wife, Gordon, where is
Margarita? I would fain see them,
once more, ere I die.”
“For Godsake! speak not thus, Partizan!
You are strong yet—your voice
is unchanged—your eye clear. We
will have you patched up in a twinkling,
and in a week you will be in your saddle.”
“Never again! never again!” he
answered, quietly. “I have seen to
many death-shots; have fired too many—
not to know that this is fatal. All
the surgeons in America cannot keep
me alive an hour. In my extremities I
am dead already.”
“Are you in pain, Pierre?”
“Can one receive such a wound,”
he answered, “and not be in pain? my
back-bone is cut in two,” and a sharp
spasm twitched the muscles of his face,
as he spoke, and showed the extremity
of the anguish, which he endured.--
“But I can bear pain,” he added, and
his voice was waxing weaker, already,
“like a —”
“Hero!” Gordon interrupted him.
“No! said the Partisan, firmly,
“I hope, like a Christian! But come,
my time is short; have me borne to the
ladies—useless! useless!” he added,
“you fear to let them see me.”
“You are right! Maxwell is there,
tending the hurt of young Alava.”
“Is he hurt? not badly—not fatally,
I hope! our men have shed too much
blood here, of the Alava's!”
“They have shed none to-day, but
saved! His is a mere flesh-wound,
given him by a coward of his own race,
one Valdez, who outraged his sister.”
“Great God! you do not mean—”
cried the Partisan, half starting up, so
that the blood gushed from his wound
in torrents, at the exertion—“that--that
they harmed a hair of her head, or of
Julia's.”
“Not one! to God be the praise!
we came just in time--but just in time,
to save them from the last extremity
women can undergo.”
“All praise be to God, indeed!”
Hitherto they had conversed alone,
with no witness but the beautiful brown
horse of the Partisan, which, bleeding
himself, from many wounds, stood close
beside them, not having moved a yard,
since the fatal shot was fired; gazing
upon his fallen master, with an eye,
that seemed full of human intelligence
and sympathy. But at this moment,
some of the men began to draw near, in
groups, and to the foremost of these,
Gordon called, eagerly.
“Come hither, some of you, my lads,
and bring a blanket—we have a friend
here, wounded.”
“My own blanket!” answered the
Partisan, “It is upon brown Emperor's
saddle. Where is brown Emperor?
He is not hurt, Gordon?”
“No, no! He is close beside you.
He has never stirred since that villain
shot you.”
“He knows that I am dying. He
once brought me help, when I broke
my leg, in the prairies, from ten leagues'
distance. Soh! Emperor, good horse!
Soh Emperor!” he added, raising his
head a little, to gaze on his favorite.
And the beautiful brown horse,
whennied as he heard the long loved
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voice, and advanced a yard or two, and
rubbed his muzzle gently and fondly
over the face of his dying master.
“Good horse! good Emperor!” said
the Partisan, petting the face of his favorite
horse, with his failing hand, “I
never shall back you again, good Emperor!
He is yours, Gordon, when I am
gone. You will be kind to him, I
know.”
The young dragoon wrung the hand
of the dying man hard, and the big
tears burst in volumes from his eyes,
and fell down like rain upon the face of
the veteran.
“Pshaw! Gordon. Pshaw! my friend.
This is unmanly. We must all come
to this. Now raise me up, and bear me
to the ladies; I would fain speak with
them, and I have but brief time.”
He was raised from the ground forthwith,
and laid in his own blanket, and
borne as tenderly as possible, by the
sympathizing soldiers, whose stern faces
displayed symptoms of most unwonted
sorrow, toward the little bower, where
Julia and the Spanish maiden were
awaiting anxiously, the return of their
friends.
Still two or three deep groans testified
the extremity of anguish which he
endured, proceeding as they did, from
one so firm and fearless.
Yet even in that extremity of suffering,
he had his wonted care and forethought
for the feelings of others.
“Go forward,” he said faintly. “Go
forward, Gordon, and apprise them.—
Women are tender plants, and this, I
think, will shock them.”
“Shock them!” cried Gordon, “It
will bow them both to the very earth.
One of them it will almost kill, if I
know ought of woman's nature.”
“Margarita?”
“Poor Margarita!”
Aye! poor, poor Margarita!” said
the dying man, slowly. “It was most
strange! it was madness! yet it was not
my fault, Gordon!”
“Your fault?” exclaimed the other,
not even guessing what he could mean.
The dying man understood the expression
of his face, and hastened to
explain.
“It was not my fault, I mean, that
she—that she fancied—that she loved
me! I did not trifle with her feelings—
you do not believe that I trifled with
her?”
“I would as soon believe that a zealot
could trifle with his God.”
“Go on! go on!” answered the
Partisan, pressing his hand kindly.
“For this will very soon be over. Slowly,
slowly, men. Bear me slowly.
And slowly they did bear him, with
the beautiful brown horse following
them, step by step, with his head bent
almost to the dust, and trailing his long
thin mane on the ground, in the depth
of animal sorrow.
When Gordon reached the bower,
the surgeon was fastening up his case,
having dressed young Alava's wound,
and was on the point of going to offer
his services, he said, where they might
be more seriously required.
The young soldier caught his last
words, as he entered, and arresting him
by the arm, said earnestly, in a low
voice, even before he replied to the congratulations
of the women—
“That is here, Maxwell. No where
can they be more required, than they
will be here. God send that they may
avail.”
Though uttered in a whisper, Julia
heard his words, and judging from the
expression of his face, clasped her
hands, and cried earnestly—
“Not the Partisan, Arthur, Oh say,
it is not the Partisan!”
“Would that I could!”
“Not severely—not fatally, at feast?”
“I fear, mortally!”
“My God! my God!” and she burst
into a paroxysm of almost hysterical
weeping.
The conversation had all passed in
the English tongue, yet, as it were,
instinctively, Margarita caught their
meaning.
“Don Pedro?” she cried in a low,
husky voice—“Don Pedro, muerte?”
“No! no!” cried Gordon eagerly,
“No! not so bad as that, dear lady
Only wounded.”
“Mortally wounded?”
Almost was he about to answer in the
negative; but when he saw the anguish
depicted in her face, he could not deceive
her, and he replied simply—
“I hope not.”
“You hope not! That means, he
is!”
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And she stoodpale and rigid, as if
struck with catalepsy. Nor did she
take the least note of anything that
passed around her, until the Partisan
was borne in, and laid down near her
feet, on the green sward. Then she
rivetted her eyes on his ashy face, and
wrung her hands in mute agony, but
spoke not.
“This is a sad sight, dear lady, for a
lady's bower,” said the Partisan; “but
I wished much to see you, and you will
pardon much in a dying man, will you
not?”
Pardon! say only what I can do for
you!
“First let me see him,” said Maxwell,
coming forward. “It may not be
so bad, as we think for.”
“No Doctor, I am past your aid.”
The surgeon who had examined his
wound, rapidly, pressed his hand, and
arose without speaking.
“It is so. Is it not, Maxwell?”
“It is, Pierre. I will not deceive
you.”
“I knew you would not.”
“How long, Maxwell?”
“Not long.”
“An hour?”
The surgeon shook his head mournfully.
Then Margarita sprung forward,
and caught the surgeon by the arm,
and cried, “Muerte? muerte?” in a
low hoarse voice, choked with anguish.
The young man was moved so deeply,
that his voice was positively choked
by his rising tears, and he could only
answer by a movement of the head.
She uttered one long piercing shriek,
and fell, lifeless, to all appearance.
The surgeon and Julia hastened to
raise her up, but Pierre said, quietly,
“Let her be! let her be, if there is
no danger. It is better she should be
senseless until all is over.”
“There is no danger,” said Maxwell,
with an air of wonder.
“God bless you, then, good Maxwell.
Betake you, where you may do more
good. My days are numbered. Commend
me to McCulloch and Gillespie.
My rifle to the first, my pistols to the
latter, and this, doctor,” he added, as
he handed him his knife. “Yourself,
Gordon, will keep my horse. Bury me
in my blanket, with my sword by my
side. Fare you well. Now, lady,” he
added, turning his eyes to Julia Gordon.
“In your ear! You will permit
me, Gordon?”
“Surely! most surely!”
Then Julia knelt down by his side
and clasped his cold hand in her own,
and listened with her whole soul in her
ears, watering his face with her tears.
“That poor thing!” he said, turning
his eyes toward the motionless form of
Margarita, “you will be kind to her,
you will care for her—you will love
her!”
“As my own sister,” faltered Julia,
hrough her sobs; “as my own sister.”
“God bless you! You have read
her secret. I never read until yesterday,
nor dreamed of it. It is most
strange. But it is better thus! it is
better thus! You have read her secret,
Julia Gordon?”
Julia assented with a silent nod, and
the dying soldier paused for a moment,
and appeared to hesitate. Then he
drew her down a little nearer to him,
and whispered even lower than before,
“And mine also?”
Julia flashed crimson through her
tears, and was silent.
“That I could not love her, because—
I loved another?”
For a moment she averted her eyes,
but the next she met his gaze calmly,
knowing that he was dying, and answered,
“I did read it.”
“But purely, honorably, chastely—
as one might love a picture, or—a good.”
“I knew it.”
“Then, indeed, it is best thus; and I
die happy. Gordon,” he added, raising
his head a little for the last time,
“this agony is well nigh over! She
has promised to be a sister, to poor
Margarita, will you do likewise?”
“She shall be my sister.”
“God's blessing on you, now, friends!
Friends, I am going; fare-you-well.
Weep not for me, for I have lived happily,
and I hope not altogether uselessly,
and I die happily; for I die with my
duty done, in the arms of those I love
the most dearly, and in the faith of a
Christian.”
Then he closed his eyes, quite exhausted
with his efforts, and lay for a
long time speechless, so that they believed
him almost dead.
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But he opened them again after a
while and said, very faintly:
“Brown Emperor; good horse. You
will be good to him, Gordon?”
Then one of those strange things
occurred which, at times, almost makes
as think that brutes have souls and reason.
For, before the young soldier
could reply, the brown horse, which
had followed the bearers of his master
to the entrance of the arbor, and paused
there, as if conscious that he must
not enter. No sooner heard his own
name uttered in those feeble accents,
than he thrust his head through the foliage,
and uttered a long, low, plaintive
neigh, utterly unlike any sound he had
ever before been heard to utter.
“Ah! thou art there, old friend.
God bless thee, too, if it be no sin so
to pray. Thou wilt be cared for: will
he not, Gordon?—Julia?”
But neither could reply for sobbing.
He understood the reason, and said
once again, “Bless you all—may God
Almighty bless you. Remember that
I die a Chris— a Christian! I am
go— going! Gordon, Gordon! let
her—let her kiss—kiss me, Julia.”
“Kiss him, quick; kiss him, kiss
him, Julia.”
She knelt beside him, bent her beautiful
form over his bosom, and pressed
her cold lips to his, and the pure spirit
of the noble and high-minded soldier
passed away in that last—that first embrace
of the woman he had loved so
chastely, so devotedly, so nobly.
Happy who so die, in the arms of
love, religion, honor.
More words are almost needless.
Julia and Gordon, under the guidance
of the gallant rangers, reached the
lines at Monterey in safety. Long did
they mourn over that true and noble
friend, who, though the friend but of a
day, had stamped himself on their
souls for ever. But grief, however
deep, must have its term, its consolation—
and theirs was consoled by happy
love and honor, won by high deeds.
Poor Margarita never ceased to weep
for the man she loved so madly and so
vainly, till, in the convent which she
entered within a month of his death,
her sorrows and her sufferings were
ended by the boon, which, as the ancients
said, God grants to whom he
loves an early death.
“Peace to her hapless love and virgin grave!”
Him they laid, where he fell, with
all the pomp of war, and all the grief
of nature; but he heard not the rattling
volley, nor felt the trickling tears, nor
haply would have prized them had he
done so, whose highest joy in death, as
it had been his best comfort in his wild,
yet simple life, was that he died a
Christian.
One thing alone remains to be recorded.
The brown horse which had
followed his master's body to the grave,
and watched his interment with an almost
human eye, was forced almost by
violence from the spot, when the last
ceremony was ended.
But, in the afternoon, when the column
was formed to march, and the bugles
sounded the advance, he reared
furiously, broke the leading rein by
which a dragoon was guiding him, and
gallopped to the spot where they had
laid his master.
They followed him, and found him
lying on the grave, rooting up the fresh
laid sods with his muzzle. But when
he saw them drawing near, he rose to
his feet with a weak staggering action,
stood for a moment gazing at them
proudly, then uttered the same long,
shrill, plaintive neigh, and in the sound
expired.
They scooped a little hollow—it was
no sacrilege!—beside the grave of him
whom he had borne so truly, whom he
would not survive; and laid him by those
honored ashes, with this motto rudely
carved on a low headstone close by the
simple monument, which love erected to
the memory of the gallant Partisan.
Fiel hasta la Muerte.
Margarita.
They sleep together! Never was
better horse or nobler rider.
THE END.
Back matter
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Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1848], Pierre, the partisan: a tale of the Mexican marches (Williams Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf150].
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