The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

"Crush me, cousin, I deserve all your reproaches. You are right; there is really one man in Mexico for whom I feel a sincere friendship."

"Ah! Ah! Then I was not mistaken?"

"No; but I was so far from supposing that it was to him you alluded, that I confess – "

"That you no longer remembered him, eh?"

"On the contrary, cousin; and it would be my most eager desire to see him again."

"And what is this person's name?"

"He told me it was Oliver; still, I should not like to affirm that it is really his name."

The young man gave a meaning smile.

"Would it be indiscreet to ask you why you entertain this unfavourable supposition?"

"Not at all, cousin; but Señor Oliver appeared to me a very mysterious gentleman; his manners are not those of everybody. As I think, there would be nothing extraordinary if, according to circumstances – "

"He assumed a name," she interrupted. "Perhaps you are right – perhaps you are wrong – I could not answer that question; all I can tell you is, that he is the person who expects you."

"That is singular," the young man muttered.

"Why so? – He has doubtless an important communication to make to you; at least, so I understood."

"Did he tell you so?"

"Not precisely; but while conversing with me last night he displayed a desire to see you as soon as possible; that is the reason, cousin, why I asked you to accompany me on my ride."

This confession was made by the young lady in such simple faith that the Count was completely staggered by it, and looked at her for a moment as if he did not comprehend her. Doña Dolores did not notice his astonishment. With her hand placed as a screen over her eyes, she was examining the plain.

"Ah," she said a moment after, pointing in a certain direction, "look at those two men seated side by side in the shade of that clump of trees; one of these is Oliver, the person who expects you. Let us hurry on."

"Very good," Ludovic answered, spurring his horse.

And they galloped toward the two men, who, on perceiving them, had risen to receive them.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE PLAIN

Oliver and Dominique, after leaving the rancho, rode for a long time side by side without exchanging a word; the adventurer seemed to be reflecting, while for his part the vaquero, in spite of his apparent nonchalance, was greatly preoccupied. Dominique, or Domingo, according as he was called in French or Spanish, whose physical portrait we have sketched in a preceding chapter, was, morally, a strange mixture of good and bad instincts; still, we are bound to add, that the good nearly always gained the victory. The wandering life he had led for several years among the indomitable Indians of the prairie, had developed in him, beside a great personal strength, an force of will and energy of character, blended with a leonine courage and a degree of cleverness which might at times be taken for duplicity. Crafty and distrustful like a Comanche, he had transferred to civilized life all the practices of the wood rangers, never letting himself be taken unawares by the most unforeseen events, and opposing an impassive face to the most scrutinizing glances, he feigned a simplicity by which the cleverest persons were often deceived; added to this, he generally displayed a rare frankness, unbounded generosity, exquisite sensibility of heart, and carried his devotion to those he loved to the extremest limits, without reflection or afterthought; but on the other hand he was implacable in his hatreds, and possessed a true Indian ferocity. In one word, his was one of those strange natures as perfect for good as for evil, and whom opportunity can as easily make remarkable men as great villains.

Oliver had profoundly studied the extraordinary character of his protégé, hence he knew better than himself, perhaps, of what he was capable; and he had frequently shuddered on probing the hidden depths of this strange organization which did not know itself; and while imposing his will on the indomitable nature and making it bow as he pleased, still, like the imprudent beast tamer who plays with a tiger, he foresaw the moment when the lava boiling dully at the bottom of this young man's heart would suddenly burst forth under the impetuous blast of the passions; hence, in spite of the implicit confidence he seemed to have in his friend, it was with extreme care that he set certain chords vibrating in him, and he sedulously avoided giving him a consciousness of his strength, or revealing to him the extent of his moral power.

After a ride of some hours the travellers arrived about three leagues from the hacienda del Arenal, on the skirt of a rather thick wood that bordered the last plantations of the hacienda.

"Let us stop here and eat," Oliver said, as he dismounted; "this is our destination for the present."

"I am quite willing," Dominique answered; "this confounded sun falling virtually on my head since the morning, is beginning, I confess, to tire me, and I should not be sorry to lie down for a little while on the grass."

"In that case stand on no ceremony, comrade; the spot is glorious for a rest."

The two men hobbled their horses, which they unbridled, to let them browze at their ease; and after sitting down opposite each other under the protection of the dense foliage of the trees, they felt in their alforjas, which were well stocked with provisions, and began eating with good appetite. Neither of the men was a great speaker, hence they disposed of their meal in silence, and it was not till Oliver had lit a puro and Dominique his Indian calumet, that the former resolved to speak.

"Well, Dominique," he said to him, "what do you think of the life I have made you lead for the last five months in this province?"

"To tell you the truth," the vaquero replied, puffing out a dense cloud of smoke, "I consider it absurd and wearisome to the highest degree. I should long ago have requested you to send me back to the western prairies, had I not been convinced that you wanted me here."

Oliver burst into a laugh.

"You are true, friend," he said, as he offered him his hand, "ever ready to act without observation or comment."

"I flatter myself I am; for is not friendship composed of self-denial and devotedness?"

"Yes; and that is why it is so rarely met with in this world."

"I pity those who are incapable of experiencing the feeling, for they deprive themselves of a great enjoyment. Friendship is the only real link that attaches men to each other."

"Many believe that it is egotism."

"Egotism is only a variety of the species; it is friendship badly understood, and reduced to low proportions."

"Hang it! I did not fancy you were so strong in paradoxes. Did you learn these tricks of the tongue among the Indians?"

"The Indians are wise men, my master," the vaquero answered with a shake of the head; "with them the true is true, and the false false, while in your cities you have so well succeeded in embroiling everything, that the cleverest man could not find his way, while the simple man soon loses the feeling of justice and injustice. Let me return to the prairies, my friend, my place is not among the paltry contests that disgrace this country, and make my heart ache with disgust and pity."

"I would willingly restore you your liberty, my boy, but I repeat that I have need of you, perhaps for three months longer."

"Three months? That is very long."

"Perhaps you will find the period very short," he said, with a peculiar expression.

"I do not believe it."

"We shall see; but I have not told you yet what I want of you."

"That is true, and I had better know, so that I may fulfil your intentions properly."

"Listen to me then: I shall be the more brief, because when the persons I am expecting arrive, I shall give you more detailed instructions."

"Very good, go on."

"Two persons are going to join us here, a young man, and a young lady; the latter is Doña Dolores de la Cruz, daughter of the owner of the hacienda del Arenal: she is sixteen years of age, and very beautiful; she is a gentle, pure, and simple girl."

"Very good, but that does not concern me, for you know I trouble myself but slightly about squaws."

"That is true, so I will not dwell on the point: Doña Dolores is betrothed to Don Ludovic, who will marry her immediately."

"Much good may it do him; and who is Don Ludovic? Some Mexican, I suppose, stupid and proud, who prances like a canon's mule."

"In that you are mistaken; Don Ludovic is her cousin, Count Ludovic de la Saulay, belonging to the highest nobility in France."

"Ah, ah! He is the Frenchman in question?"

"Yes: he has come expressly from France to contract with his cousin this union which has long been arranged between the two families. Count Ludovic is a most agreeable gentleman, rich, kind, amiable, well educated, and obliging: in short, an excellent fellow, in whom I take the most sincere interest, and I wish you to attach yourself to him."

"If he is as you say, all right; before two days we shall be the best friends in the world."

"Thanks, Dominique, I expected no less from you."

"Eh," said the vaquero, "look there, Oliver, someone is coming, I fancy: hang it, they are riding fast, they will be on us in ten minutes."

"They are Doña Dolores and Count Ludovic."

They rose to go and receive the young people, who, in truth, were coming up at full speed.

"Here we are at last," the young lady said, as she stopped her horse, with the skill of a practised rider.

With one bound the newcomers reached the ground; after bowing to Dominique, the Count held out both hands to the adventurer.

"I see you again then, my friend," he said to him; "thanks for remembering me."

"Did you suppose I had forgotten you?"

"On my word," the young man said gaily, "I almost had the right to do so."

"My Lord Count," the adventurer then said, "permit me first of all to introduce to you M. Dominique, he is more than a brother, he is another self: I shall be pleased if you will transfer to him a small portion of the friendship you deign to testify to me."

"Sir," the Count replied, bowing gracefully to the vaquero, "I sincerely regret that I express myself so badly in Spanish, for it prevents me from proving to you the lively desire I feel to let you see the sympathy with which you have already inspired me."

"That is of no consequence, Sir," the vaquero replied in French "I speak your language fluently enough to thank you for your cordial language, for which I am most grateful."

"Ah, by Jove! Sir, you delight me; this is a charming surprise; pray, accept my hand, and consider me as entirely at your service."

"Most willingly, sir, and thank you; we shall soon know each other better, and then, you will reckon me, I hope, in the number of your friends."

After these words, the two young men warmly shook hands.

"Are you satisfied, my friend?" Doña Dolores asked.

"You are a fairy, dear child," Oliver replied with emotion; "you cannot imagine how happy you render me."

And he respectfully kissed the forehead which the young lady offered him. "Now," he continued, changing his tone, "let us turn to business, for time presses; but we are still one short."

"Who is it?" the young lady asked.

"Leo Carral: let me summon him;" and raising to his lips a silver whistle, he produced a shrill and long sustained note.

Almost immediately the galloping of a horse was heard in the distance, which rapidly drew nearer, and the majordomo soon appeared.

"Come on, come on, Leo," the adventurer shouted to him.

"Here I am, señor," the majordomo replied, "entirely at your orders."

"Listen to me attentively," Oliver resumed, addressing Doña Dolores; "the affair is serious, I am compelled to go away this very day: my absence may last for a long time; and hence it is impossible for me to watch over you: unfortunately I have a foreboding that an imminent danger threatens you, of what nature it is, or when it will burst on you, I am unable to say, but it is certain. Now, my dear Dolores, what I cannot do, others will do: these others are the Count, Dominique, and our friend Leo Carral, all three are devoted to you, and will watch over you like brothers."

"But, my friend," the young lady interrupted, "you forget, I think, my father and my brother."

"No, my child, I do not forget them, on the contrary, I bear them in mind: your father is an aged man, who not only cannot protect anyone, but needs protection himself, which in the case of need you will not fail to grant him. As for your brother, Don Melchior, you know, my dear girl, my opinion about him, and hence it is unnecessary to dwell on that point: he cannot, or will not defend you. You know that I am usually well informed, and am rarely mistaken; now, all of you carefully remember this; be most careful not to let Don Melchior or any other inhabitant of the hacienda suppose, either from your words or actions, that you foresee a misfortune; but watch carefully, so as not to let yourselves be surprised, and take your precautions accordingly."

"We will watch, trust to me," the vaquero replied; "but I have an objection to offer, my friend, which is not without justice."

"What is it?"

"How shall I manage to get into the hacienda and remain there without arousing suspicions? This appears to me rather difficult."

"No, you are mistaken; no one at the hacienda knows you but Leo Carral, I think?"

"That is true."

"Well, you will go there as a Frenchman, a friend of the Count de la Saulay; and for greater security you will pretend, not to understand a word of Spanish."

"Permit me," Ludovic observed, "I have spoken several times to Don Andrés about an intimate friend attached to the French Legation at Mexico, and whom I expect to visit me at the hacienda at any moment."

"Perfect, Dominique will pass for him, and if he likes, he can talk broken Spanish; what is the name of the friend you expect?"

"Charles de Meriadec."

"Very good, Dominique will christen himself so; while he is at the hacienda I will arrange that the man whose name he temporarily assumes, does not come to disturb him."

"Hum, that is important."

"Fear nothing, I will arrange it; so that is settled; and tomorrow Monsieur Charles de Meriadec will arrive at the hacienda."

"He will be well received then," Ludovic replied with a smile.

"As for you, Leo Carral, I have no recommendations to give you."

"No, no, my measures have been taken for a long time past," the majordomo replied; "I have only now to arrange with these gentlemen."

"All is going well, so now let us separate: I should have been a long way off by this time."

"Are you leaving us already, my friend?" Doña Dolores asked with emotion.

"I must, my child; be of good cheer, and have confidence in God; during my absence He will watch over you; farewell."

The adventurer pressed the Count's hand for the last time, kissed the young lady's forehead, and leapt into the saddle.

"Let me see you again soon," Doña Dolores said to him.

"Tomorrow you will see your friend Meriadec," Dominique said with a laugh, and he started at a gallop after the adventurer.

"Are you going back with us to the hacienda?" the Count asked the majordomo.

"Why not?" he replied; "I shall be supposed to have met you during your ride."

"That is true."

They remounted, and cantered toward the hacienda, which they reached a little before sunset.

CHAPTER XII

POLITICAL

The closing months of 18 – had arrived. Political events were beginning to press on each other with such rapidity that the least enlightened minds already understood that they were hurrying towards an imminent catastrophe. In the South, the troops of General Gutiérrez had gained a great victory over the constitutional army commanded by General Don Diego Álvarez (the same who at an earlier period presided at Guaymas over the court martial that condemned to death our unfortunate countryman and friend Count Gaston de Raousset Boulbon). The carnage of the Puitos Indians had been immense: 1200 remained on the battlefield, and the artillery and abundant materiel fell into the hands of the victor. But at the same period, there commenced in the interior a series of opposite events: the first was the flight of Zuloaga, that president who, after abdicating in favour of Miramón, revoked that abdication one day without knowing exactly why, without consulting anyone, and at the moment when it was least expected.

General Miramón then loyally offered to the President of the Supreme Court of Justice to assume the executive power and convoke the assembly of the Notables to have himself elected chief magistrate of the Republic. While this was happening, a new catastrophe added fresh dangers to the situation. Miramón, whom his continual victories had probably endowed with imprudent confidence, or more probably impelled by the desire to come to an end in some way or another, offered battle at Silao to forces four times his own. He suffered a complete rout, lost his artillery, and was himself on the point of perishing: it was only by performing prodigies of valour, and killing with his own hand several of those that surrounded him, that he succeeded in cutting his way out of the mêlée and escaping to Queretaro, where he arrived almost alone. From this place, Miramón, not allowing himself to be crushed by misfortunes, returned to Mexico, whose inhabitants thus learned simultaneously his defeat, his arrival, and his intention to offer himself for election.

The result did not disappoint the secret expectations of the general: he was elected President by the chamber of Notables almost unanimously. The general, who knew how time pressed, took the oaths, and immediately entered on his duties. Although materially the defeat at Silao was almost nothing, still from a moral point of view the effect produced was immense. Miramón understood this: he actively employed himself in restoring a little order in the finances, creating resources, precarious but sufficient for the urgent necessities of the moment in raising fresh troops, and taking all the precautions that prudence suggested. Unfortunately the president was constrained to abandon several important points in order to concentrate his forces round Mexico, and these various movements, ill understood by the people, alarmed them and made them apprehend approaching misfortunes. Under these circumstances, the president, wishing doubtless to satisfy public opinion and restore a little tranquillity to the capital, consented to enter into negotiations with his rival Juárez, which, if they did not lead to peace, might at any rate produce an armistice which would temporarily check bloodshed. Unluckily, a fresh complication rendered all hope of an arrangement impossible.

General Márquez had been sent to the relief of Guadalajara, which town, it was supposed continued successfully to resist the federal troops; but all at once, after the federals had carried off a conducta de plata belonging to English merchants, an armistice was concluded between the two belligerent corps – an armistice with which the money of the conducta had no doubt a great deal to do – and General Castillo, commandant of Guadalajara, abandoned by the majority of his troops, found himself compelled to leave the town and take refuge on the Pacific: so that the federals, freed from this obstacle, combined against Márquez, defeated him, and destroyed his corps, the only one that still kept the field. The situation thus became more and more critical: the federals meeting with no further obstacle or resistance in their victorious march, rose up on all sides and every hope of negotiations was lost. Fighting must go on at all risks. The fall of Miramón, consequently, could only be a question of time: the General doubtless perfectly comprehended this, but he did not let it be seen, and, on the contrary, redoubled his ardour and activity in order to parry the incessantly rising embarrassments of his situation.

After appealing to all classes of society, the General at length resolved to apply to the clergy, whom he had always supported and protected: they replied to his appeal, raised a tithe on their lands, and resolved to carry to the mint their gold and silver ornaments, to be melted and placed at the disposal of the executive power. Unfortunately, all these efforts were thrown away, the expenses increased in a ratio with the continually growing dangers of the situation, and ere long Miramón, after vainly employing all the expedients which his critical position suggested to him, found himself with an empty treasury and the sorrowful conviction that it was useless to dream of refilling it.

We have already had occasion to explain how as each State of the Mexican confederation remains in possession of the public funds during a period of revolution, the government sitting at Mexico finds itself almost continually in a state of utter penury, because it only has the funds of the State of Mexico at its disposal, while its rivals, on the contrary, constantly beating up the country in all directions, not only stop the conductas de plata and appropriate very considerable sums without the slightest remorse, but also plunder the exchequer of all the States they enter, carry off the money without the slightest scruple, and thus find themselves in a position to carry on the war without disadvantage.

Now, that we have rapidly sketched the political situation in which Mexico was, we will resume our narrative in the early days of Nov. 18 – , that is to say, about six weeks after the period when we interrupted it. Night was advancing, shadows were already invading the plain, the oblique beams of the setting sun, gradually expelled from the valleys, were still clinging to the snowy peaks of the mountains of Anahuac, which they tinged with vermillion hues: the breeze rustled through the foliage: vaqueros, mounted on horses as wild as themselves, were driving across the plain large herds which had wandered all day at liberty, but at night returned to the corral. In the distance could be heard tingling the mule bells of some belated arrieros, who were hurrying to reach the magnificent highway lined enormous aloes, contemporaries of Motecuhzoma, which runs to Mexico.

A traveller, mounted on a powerful horse and carefully wrapped in the folds of a cloak which was pulled up to his eyes, was slowly following the capricious windings of a narrow track which, cutting across country, joined at about two leagues from the town the high road from Mexico to Puebla, a road at this moment completely deserted, not only on account of the approach of night, but also because the state of anarchy into which the country had so long been plunged, had let loose numerous bands of brigands who, taking advantage of the circumstances and waging war in their own way, stripped without any distinction of political opinion both constitutionals and liberals, and emboldened by impunity, did not always content themselves with the highway, but even entered the towns to carry on their depredations. Still, the traveller to whom we allude appeared to trouble himself very little about the risks he ran, and continued his venturesome ride at the same quiet and gentle rate. He went on thus for about three quarters of an hour, and was not more than a league from the city when, happening to raise his head, he perceived that he had reached a spot where the track parted and ran to the right and left: he halted with evident hesitation, but a moment later took the right hand track. The traveller, after going in this direction for about ten minutes appeared to know where he was, for he gave his horse a slight touch of the spur, and made it break into a long trot. Ere long he reached a pile of blackened ruins, scattered disorderly over the ground, and near which grew a clump of trees whose long branches overshadowed the earth around them for a considerable distance. On reaching this spot, the horseman halted, and after looking searchingly around him, evidently to make sure that he was alone, he dismounted, sat down comfortably on a sod of grass, leant against a tree, threw back his cloak and revealed the pale worn features of the wounded man whom we saw conducted to the rancho by Dominique, the vaquero.

Don Antonio de Caserbaz, for such was his name, only appeared the shadow of his former self – a sort of mournful spectre. His whole life appeared concentrated in his eyes, which flashed with a sinister gleam like those of fawns; but in this body, apparently so weak, it could be seen that an ardent mind and energetic will were enclosed, and that this man, who had emerged a victor from an obstinate struggle with death, was pursuing with unswerving obstinacy the execution of dark resolutions previously formed by him. Scarce cured from his frightful wound, still very weak, and only enduring with extreme difficulty the fatigue of a long ride, he had, for all that, imposed silence on his sufferings, to come thus at nightfall nearly three leagues from Mexico to a rendezvous which he had himself requested. The motives for such conduct, especially in his state of weakness, must be of very great importance to him.