The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan War

"Speak."

"Both of us being placed in diametrically opposite positions, chance has thought proper to bring us together to-day: if we now part, we shall take with us no feeling of hatred through our meeting, because neither you nor I have had cause to complain of each other, and probably we shall never see each other again."

"Still, it is plain that when my soldiers found you, you were expecting somebody on this road."

"What makes you suppose that?"

"Hang it! you told me you were hunters; I do not see any game you could hunt along this road."

The prisoner began laughing.

"Who knows?" he replied, with a stress on his words, "Perhaps it was more precious game than you may fancy, and of which you would like to have your share."

The monk gave a slight start, and opened his eyes as awaking.

"What?" he said, addressing the Captain, and stifling a yawn. "You are not asleep, Don Juan?"

"Not yet," the latter answered. "I am questioning the two men my vanguard arrested some hours ago."

"Ah!" the monk remarked with a disdainful glance at the strangers, "these poor devils do not appear to me very alarming."

"You think so?"

"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."

"Perhaps they are spies?"

Fray Antonio assumed a paternal air.

"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"

"Under the circumstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so improbable, I fancy."

"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might easily have escaped."

"That is true."

"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I would quietly let them go where they pleased."

"Is that your advice?"

"Indeed it is."

"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."

"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."

"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."

"Were they expecting anybody?"

"They say so, at any rate."

"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."

"Who was it, then?"

"Do you insist on knowing?"

"Certainly."

"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."

"I?" the monk said with a start of passion, and turning pale as a corpse.

"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to grow interesting."

It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.

The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle, every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly, and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarrassment of the man whom they had placed in this terrible dilemma.

"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."

"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my soul."

"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language toward me," the prisoner replied drily.

"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried coarsely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good pleasure."

"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of your conduct."

"There you see, Señor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is growing delicate; come, behave like a man."

"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible trap."

"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap, but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and possess the most circumstantial details about the plans you were devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time; a man cannot serve GOD and the devil simultaneously, without all being discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your hypocritical face."

At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he raised his head and turned to the Captain.

"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.

Don Juan smiled contemptuously.

"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your worthy acolytes are waiting to massacre and rob us. What will you reply to that?"

"Nothing," he answered, drily.

"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an eternal recollection of our meeting."

"Take care of what you are about to do, Señor Captain: I belong to the church, and this gown renders me inviolable."

A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.

"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."

Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively followed the conversation.

The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.

"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a chicote."

"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for having insulted a minister of the altar."

The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their ignorance and stupid superstition robbed them of the courage to brave.

The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly —

"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pass, fellows!"

The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his fists, as he looked passionately around him.

The monk had all but passed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.

"One moment, Señor Padre," the hunter said. "I can understand that these worthy fellows, who are Catholics, should fear your curse, and dare not lay a hand on you through their dread of eternal flames, but with me it is different. I am a heretic, as you know, hence I run no risk in taking off your gown, and, with your permission, I will do you that slight service."

"Oh!" the monk replied, as he ground his teeth; "I will kill you, John, I will kill you, villain!"

"Nonsense, threatened people live a long while," John replied, as he forced him to take off his monk's gown.

"There," he continued, "now, my fine fellows, you can carry out your Captain's orders in perfect safety; this man is no more to you than the first comer."

The hunter's bold action suddenly broke the spell that enchained the soldiers. So soon as the much-feared gown no longer covered the monk's shoulders, listening to neither prayers nor threats, they seized the culprit, fastened him, in spite of his cries, securely to a catalpa, and conscientiously administered the two hundred lashes decreed by the Captain, while the hunters played their part by counting the blows and laughing loudly at the contortions of the wretched man, whom pain caused to writhe like a serpent.

At the one hundred and twenty-eighth lash the monk became silent: his nervous system being completely overthrown, rendered him insensible; still, he did not faint, his teeth were clenched, a white foam escaped from his crisped lips, he looked fixedly before him without seeing anything, and giving no other signs of existence than the heavy sighs which at intervals upheld his muscular chest.

When the punishment was ended, and he was unfastened, he fell to the ground like a log, and lay there motionless.

His robe was handed back to him, and he was left to lie there, no one troubling himself further about him.

The two hunters then went off, after talking to the Captain for some minutes in a low voice.

The rest of the night passed away without incident.

A few minutes before sunrise, the soldiers and arrieros prepared to load the mules, and prepare everything for the start.

"Stay," the Captain suddenly exclaimed, "where is the monk? We cannot abandon him thus; lay him on a mule, and we will leave him at the first rancho we come to."

The soldiers hastened to obey, and look for Padre Antonio, but all their search was in vain; he had disappeared, and left no trace of his flight.

Don Juan frowned at the news, but, after a moment's reflection, he shook his head carelessly.

"All the better," he said, "he would have been in our way."

The conducta herewith started again.

CHAPTER XVI

A POLITICAL SKETCH

Before proceeding further, we will say in a few words what was the political situation of Texas at the moment when the story we have undertaken to tell took place.

During the Spanish domination, the Texans claimed their liberty, arms in hand; but after various successes, they were definitively crushed at the battle of Medina, on August 13th, 1815, a fatal date, by Colonel Arredondo, commanding the regiment of Estremadura, who was joined by the Militia of the State of Cohahuila. From that period up to the second Mexican Revolution, Texas remained bowed beneath the intolerable yoke of the military regime, and left defenceless to the incessant attacks of the Comanche Indians.

The United States had on many occasions raised claims to that country, declaring that the natural frontiers of Mexico and the Confederation were the Rio Bravo; but compelled in 1819 to allow ostensibly that their claims were not founded, they employed roundabout means to seize on this rich territory, and incorporate it in their borders.

It was at that time they displayed that astute and patiently Machiavellian policy, which finally led to their triumph.

In 1821, the first American emigrants made their appearance, timidly, and almost incognito, on the brazos, clearing the land, colonizing secretly, and becoming in a few years so powerful, that in 1824 they had made sufficient progress to form a compact mass of nearly 50,000 individuals. The Mexicans, incessantly occupied in struggling one against the other in their interminable civil wars, did not understand the purport of the American immigration, which they encouraged at the outset.

Hardly eight years had elapsed since the arrival of the first Americans in Texas, when they formed nearly the entire population.

The Washington Cabinet no longer concealed its intentions, and spoke openly of buying from the Mexicans the territory of Texas, in which the Spanish element had almost entirely disappeared, to make room for the daring and mercantile spirit of the Anglo-Saxons.

The Mexican Government, at last aroused from its long lethargy, understood the danger that threatened it from the double invasion of the inhabitants of Missouri and Texas into the State of Santa Fé. It tried to arrest the American emigration, but it was too late; the law passed by the Mexican Congress was powerless, and the colonization was not arrested, in spite of the Mexican military posts scattered along the border, with orders to turn the immigrants back.

General Bustamante, President of the Republic, seeing that he would soon have to fight with the Americans, silently prepared for the conflict, and sent under different pretexts to Red River and the Sabina various bodies of troops, which presently attained to the number of 1200 men.

Still, everything remained quiet apparently; and nothing evidenced the period when the struggle would commence, which a perfidy on the part of the Governor of the Eastern provinces caused to break out at the moment when least expected.

The facts were as follow: —

The Commandant of Anahuac arrested and put in prison several American colonists, without any plausible grounds.

The Texans had hitherto patiently endured the innumerable vexations which the Mexican officers made them undergo, but at this last abuse of force they rose as if by one accord, and went under arms to the Commandant, demanding with threats and angry shouts the immediate liberation of their fellow-citizens.

The Commandant, too weak to resist openly, feigned to grant what was asked of him, but represented that he required two days to fulfil certain formalities, and cover his own responsibility.

The insurgents granted this delay, by which the Commandant profited to send in all haste to the Nacogdoches garrison to help him.

This garrison arrived at the moment when the insurgents, confiding on the Governor's promise, were with-drawing.

Furious at having been so perfidiously deceived, the latter returned and made such an energetic demonstration that the Mexican officer considered himself fortunate in escaping a fight by surrendering his prisoners.

At this period, a pronunciamento in favour of Santa Anna hurled General Bustamante from power to the cry of "Long live the Federation!"

Texas was extremely afraid of the system of centralization, from which it would never have obtained the recognition of its independence as a separate State, and hence the people were unanimous for Federalism.

The colonists rose, and joining the insurgents of Anahuac who were still under arms, marched resolutely on Fort Velasco, to which they laid siege.

The rallying cry was still "Long live the Federation!" But this time it concealed the cry of Independence, which the Texans were as yet too weak to raise.

Fort Velasco was defended by a small Mexican garrison, commanded by a brave officer of the name of Ugartechea.

During this extraordinary siege, in which the assailants only replied to the cannon with rifle bullets, both Texans and Mexicans performed prodigies of valour and displayed extraordinary obstinacy.

The colonists, skilful marksmen, hidden behind enormous barricades, fired as at a mark, and killed the Mexican gunners whenever they showed themselves to load their guns. Matters reached such a point that the Commandant, seeing his bravest soldiers fall round him, devoted himself and set to work as artilleryman. Struck by this heroic courage, the Texans, who could have killed the brave Commandant twenty times, ceased their fire, and Ugartechea at length surrendered, giving up a defence which was henceforth impossible.

The success filled the colonists with joy, but Santa Anna was not deceived as to the object of the Texan insurrection; he understood that federalism concealed a well-devised revolutionary movement, and far from trusting to the apparent devotion of the colonists, so soon as his power was sufficiently strengthened to allow him to act energetically against them, he sent off Colonel Mexia with four hundred men, to reestablish in Texas the greatly shaken Mexican authority.

After many hesitations and diplomatic dodges, which had no possible result with parties, both of which employed perfidy as their chief weapon, the war at length broke out furiously; a committee of public safety was organized at San Felipe, and the people were called upon to take part in the struggle.

The civil war, however, had not yet officially broken out, when the man at length appeared who was destined to decide the fate of Texas, and for whom the glory of liberating it was reserved – we allude to Samuel Houston.

From this moment the timid and purposeless insurrection of Texas became a revolution. Still the Mexican government remained apparently the legitimate master of the colony, and the colonists were naturally denominated insurgents, and treated as such, when they fell into the hands of their enemies; that is to say, they were without trial hung, drowned, or shot, according as the spot where they were captured suited one of these three modes of death.

At the period when our story opens, the exasperation against the Mexicans and the enthusiasm for the noble cause of Independence had reached their acme.

About three weeks previously, a serious engagement had taken place between the garrison of Bejar and a detachment of Texan volunteers, commanded by Austin, one of the most renowned Chiefs of the insurgents; in spite of their inferiority in numbers and ignorance of military tactics, the colonists fought so bravely, and worked their solitary gun so skilfully, that the Mexican troops, after undergoing serious losses, were compelled to retreat precipitately on Bejar.

This action was the first on the west of Texas after the capture of Fort Velasco; it decided the revolutionary movement which ran through the country like a train of gunpowder.

On all sides the towns raised troops to join the army of liberation; resistance was organized on a grand scale and bold Guerilla Chiefs began traversing the country in every direction, making war on their own account, and serving after their fashion the cause they embraced and which they were supposed to be defending.

Captain Don Juan Melendez, surrounded by enemies the more dangerous because it was impossible for him to know their numbers or guess their movements; entrusted with an extreme delicate mission; having at each step a prescience of treachery incessantly menacing, though ignorant where, when, or how it would burst on him; was compelled to employ extreme precautions and a merciless severity, if he wished to get safe home the precious charge confided to him; hence he had not hesitated before the necessity of instituting an example by roughly punishing Padre Antonio.

For a long time past, grave suspicions had been gathering over the monk; his ambiguous conduct had aroused distrust, and caused presumptions in no way favourable to his honesty.

Don Juan had determined to clear up his doubts at the first opportunity that offered; we have stated in what way he had succeeded by springing a countermine, that is to say, by having the spy watched by others more skilful than himself, and catching him almost red-handed.

Still, we must do the worthy monk the justice of declaring that his conduct had not the slightest political motive; his thoughts were not so elevated as that; knowing that the Captain was entrusted with the charge of a conducta de plata, he had only tried to draw him into a trap, for the sake of having a share in the plunder, and making his fortune at a stroke, in order that he might enjoy those indulgences he had hitherto gone without; his ideas did not extend further, the worthy man was simply a highway robber, but there was nothing of the politician about him.

We will leave him for the present to follow the two hunters to whom he was indebted for the rude chastisement he received, and who quitted the camp immediately after the execution of the sentence.

These two men went off at a great speed, and, after descending the hill, buried themselves in a thick wood, where two magnificent prairie horses, half-tamed Mustangs, with flashing eye and delicate limbs, were quietly browsing, while waiting for their riders; they were saddled in readiness for mounting.

After unfastening the hobbles, the hunters put the bits in their mouths, mounted, and digging in their spurs, started at a sharp gallop.

They rode for a long distance, bent over their horses' necks, following no regular path, but going straight on, caring little for the obstacles they met on their passage, and which they cleared with infinite skill; about an hour before sunrise they at length stopped.

They had reached the entrance of a narrow gorge, flanked on both sides by lofty wooded hills, the spurs of the mountains, whose denuded crests seemed from their proximity to hang over the landscape. The hunters dismounted before entering the gorge, and after hobbling their horses, which they hid in a clump of floripondios, they began exploring the neighbourhood with the care and sagacity of Indian warriors seeking booty on the war-trail.

Their researches remained for a long time sterile, which could easily be perceived from the exclamations of disappointment they every now and then vented in a low voice: at length, after two hours, the first beams of the sun dissipated the darkness, and they perceived some almost imperceptible traces which made them start with joy.

Probably feeling now liberated from the anxiety that tormented them, they returned to their horses, lay down on the ground, and after fumbling in their alforjas, drew from them the materials for a modest breakfast, to which they did honour with the formidable appetite of men who have spent the whole night in the saddle, riding over mountains and valleys.

Since their departure from the Mexican camp the hunters had not exchanged a syllable, apparently acting under the influence of a dark preoccupation, which rendered any conversation unnecessary.

In fact, the silence of men accustomed to desert life is peculiar; they pass whole days without uttering a word, only speaking when necessity obliges them, and generally substituting for oral language that language of signs which, in the first place, has the incontestable advantage of not betraying the presence of those who employ it to the ears of invisible enemies constantly on the watch, and ready to leap, like birds of prey, on the imprudent persons who allow themselves to be surprised.

When the hunters' appetite was appeased, the one whom the Captain called John lit his short pipe, placed it in the corner of his month, and, handed the tobacco-pouch to his comrade.

"Well, Sam," he said in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard, "I fancy we have succeeded, eh?"

"I think so too, John," Sam replied with a nod of affirmation; "you are deucedly clever, my boy."

"Nonsense," the other said disdainfully; "there is no merit in deceiving those brutes of Spaniards; they are stupid as bustards."

"No matter, the Captain fell into the hole in a glorious way."

"Hum! it was not he I was afraid of; for he and I have been good friends for a long time; but it was the confounded monk."

"Eh, eh, if he had not arrived just in time, he would probably have spoiled our fun; what is your opinion, John?"

"I think you are right, Sam. By Jabers, I laughed at seeing him writhe under the chicote."

"It was certainly a glorious sight; but are you not afraid that he may avenge himself? these monks are devilishly spiteful."

"Bah! what have we to fear from such vermin? He will never dare to look us in the face."

"No matter, we had better be on our guard. Our trade is a queer one, as you know, and it is very possible that some day or other this accursed animal may play us an ugly trick."

"Don't bother about him; what we did was all fair in war. Be assured that, under similar circumstances, the monk would not have spared us."

"That is true; so let him go to the deuce; the more so as the prey we covet could not be in a better situation for us. I should never pardon myself if I let it escape."

"Shall we remain here in ambush?"

"That is the safest way; we shall have time to rejoin our comrades when we see the recua enter the plain; and, besides, have we not to meet somebody here?"

"That is true, I forgot it."

"And stay, when you speak of the devil – here is our man."

The hunters rose quickly, seized their rifles, and hid themselves behind a rock, so as to be ready for any event.