Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

“What on airth is it, eh?” said he, looking puzzled. “Why, that’s one of Colt’s rifles! you’d have picked me down at two hundred yards, sure as my name is Gabriel.”

“I know it,” said I, coolly; “and how much the better or the happier should I have been, had I done so?” I watched the fellow’s pasty countenance as though I could read what passed in the muddy bottom of his mind.

“If it were not for something of this kind,” added I, sorrowfully, “I should not be here to-day. You know New Orleans?” He nodded. “Well, perhaps you know Ebenezer York?”

“The senator?”

“The same!” I made the pantomime of presenting a pistol, and then of a man falling. “Just so. His brothers have taken up the pursuit, and so I came down into this quarter till the smoke cleared off!”

“He was a plumper at a hundred and twenty yards. I seen him double up Gideon Millis, of Ohio.”

“Ah, I could recount many a thing of the kind to you,” said I, leading the way towards the hut, “but my throat is so dry, and I feel so confoundedly weary just now – ”

“That’s cider,” said he, pointing to the crock.

I did n’t wait for a more formal invitation, but carried it to my lips, and so held it for full a couple of minutes.

“Ye wor drouthy, – that’s a fact!” said he, peering into the low watermark of the vessel.

“You hav’n’t got any more bread?” said I, appropriating his own.

“If I had n’t, ye ‘d not have got that so easy, lad!” said he, with a grin.

“And now for my mare; you see she’s a good one – ”

“Good as if she belonged to a richer master!” said he, with a peculiar leer of the eye. “I know her well! knowed her a foal! Ah, Charry, Miss! do you forget the way to take off your saddle with your teeth?” and he patted the creature with a nearer approach to kindness than I believed he was capable of.

I will not dwell upon the little arts I employed to conciliate my friend Gabriel, nor stop to say how I managed to procure some Indian corn-meal for my horse, and the addition of a very tough piece of dried beef to my own meagre breakfast. I conclude the reader will be as eager to escape from his society as I was myself; nor had I ever thrown him into such unprofitable acquaintanceship, were there other means of explaining how first I wandered from the right path, and by what persuasions I was influenced in not returning to it.

If Gabriel’s history was not very entertaining, it was at least short, so far as its catastrophe went. He was a Kentucky “bounty man,” who had taken into his head to fight a duel with a companion with whom he was returning from New York. He killed his antagonist, buried him, and was wending his way homeward with the watch and other property of the deceased, to restore to his friends, when he was arrested at Little Rock, and conveyed to jail. He was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death, but made his escape the night before the execution was to have taken place. His adventures from the Arkansas River till the time he found himself in Texas were exciting in a high degree, and, even with his own telling, not devoid of deep interest. Since his location in the One-star Republic, he had tried various things, but all had failed with him. His family, who followed him, died off by the dreadful intermittents of the bush, leaving him alone to doze through the remainder of existence between the half-consciousness of his fall and the stupid insensibility of debauch. There was but one theme could stir the dark embers of his nature; and when he had quitted that, the interest of life seemed to have passed away, and he relapsed into his dreamy indifference to both present and future.

How he contrived to eke out subsistence was difficult to conceive. To the tavern he had been almost the only customer, and in succession consumed the little stores his poor wife had managed to accumulate. He appeared to feel a kind of semi-consciousness that if “bears did not fall in his way” during the winter, it might go hard with him; and he pointed to four mounds of earth behind the log-hut, and said that “the biggest would soon be alongside of ‘em.”

As the heat of midday was too great to proceed in, I learned from him thus much of his own story, and some particulars of the road to Bexar, whither I had now resolved on proceeding, since, according to his opinion, that afforded me a far better chance of coming up with the expedition than by following their steps to Austin.

“Had you come a few hours earlier to-day,” said he, “you could have joined company with a Friar who is travelling to Bexar; but you ‘ll easily overtake him, as he travels with a little wagon and a sick woman. They are making a pilgrimage to the saints there for her health. They have two lazy mules and a half-breed driver that won’t work miracles on the roads, whatever the Virgin may after! You’ll soon come up with them, if Charry’s like what she used to be.”

This intelligence was far from displeasing to me. I longed for some companionship; and that of a Friar, if not very promising as to amusement, had at least the merit of safety, – no small charm in such a land as I then sojourned in. I learned besides that he was an Irishman who had come out as a missionary among the Choctaws, and that he was well versed in prairie life; that he spoke many of the Indian dialects, and knew the various trails of these pathless wilds like any trapper of them all.

Such a fellow-traveller would be indeed a prize; and as I saddled my mare to follow him, I felt lighter at heart than I had done for a long time previous. “And his name?” said I.

“It is half-Mexican by this. They call him Fra Miguel up at Bexar.”

“Now then for Fra Miguel!” cried I, springing into my saddle; and with a frank “Good-bye,” took the road to Bexar.

I rode along with a light heart, my way leading through a forest of tall beech and alder trees, whose stems were encircled by the twining tendrils of the “Liana,” which oftentimes spanned the space overhead, and tempered the noonday sun by its delicious shade. Birds of gay plumage and strange note hopped from branch to branch, while hares and rabbits sat boldly on the grassy road, and scarcely cared to move at my approach. The crimson-winged bustard, the swallow-tailed woodpecker, with his snowy breast, and that most beautiful of all, the lazuli finch, whose color would shame the blue waters of the Adriatic, chirped and fluttered on every side. The wild squirrel, too, swung by his tail, and jerked himself from bough to bough, in all the confidence of unmolested liberty; while even the deer, timid without danger, stood and gazed at me as I went, doubtless congratulating themselves that they were not born to be beasts of burden.

There was so much novelty to me in all around that the monotonous character of the scene never wearied; for, although as far as human companionship was concerned, nothing could be more utterly solitary and desolate, yet the abundance of animal life, the bright tints of plumage, and the strange concert of sound, afforded an unceasing interest.

Occasionally I came upon the charred fragments of firewood, with other signs indicative of a bivouac, showing where some hunting-party had halted; but these, with a chance wheel-track, were all the evidence that travellers had ever passed that way. The instincts of the human heart are, after all, linked to companionship, and although it was but a few hours since I had parted with “mine host” of Brazos, I began to conceive a most anxious desire for the society of a fellow-traveller. I had pushed Charcoal for some time, in the hope of overtaking the Friar; but not only without success, but even without coming upon any recent tracks that should show where the party passed. I could not have mistaken the road, since there was but one through the forest; and at last I became uneasy lest I should not reach some place of shelter for the night, and obtain refreshment for myself and my horse. From the time that these thoughts crossed my mind, all relish for the scene and its strange associations departed. A scarlet jay might have perched upon my saddle-bow unmolested; a “whip-poor-will” might have chanted her note from my hat or my holsters unminded; the antlered stags did indeed graze me as they went, without my once remembering that I was the owner of one of “Colt’s sharp bores,” so intent I had grown upon the topic of personal safety. What if I had gone astray? What if I fell in with the Choctaws, who often came within a few miles of Austin? What if Charcoal fell lame, or even tired? What if – But why enumerate all the suspicions that, when chased away on one side, invariably came back on the other? There was not an incident, from a sprained ankle to actual starvation, that I did not rehearse; and, like that respected authority who spent his days speculating what he should do “if he met a white bear,” I threw myself into so many critical situations and embarrassing conjectures that my head ached with overtaxed ingenuity to escape from them.

Æsop’s fables have much to answer for. The attributing the gift of speech to animals, by way of characterizing their generic qualities, takes a wondrous hold upon the mind; and as for me, I held “imaginary conversations” with everything that flew or bounded past. From the green lizard that scaled the shining cork-trees, to the lazy toad that flopped heavily into the water, I had a word for all, – ay, and thought they answered me, too.

Some, I fancied, chirped pleasantly and merrily, as though to say, “Go it, Con, my hearty; Charry has stride and wind for many a mile yet!” Some, with a wild scream, would seem to utter a cry of surprise at the pace, as if saying, “Ruffle my feathers if Con ‘s not in a hurry!” An old owl, with a horseshoe wig, looked shocked at my impetuosity, and shook his wise head in grave rebuke; while a fat asthmatic frog nearly choked with emotion as I hurled the small pebbles into his bath of duck-weed. How strange would life be, reduced to such companionship! thought I. Would one gradually sink down to the level of this animal existence, such as it appears now, or would one elevate the inferior animal to some equality of intelligence?

The solitude which a short time previous had suggested – I know not now many! – bright imaginings, presented now the one sad, unvarying reflection, – desolation; and it had almost become a doubtful point whether I should not at once turn my horse’s head and make for Upper Brazos and its gruff host of the log-house, rather than brave a night “al fresco” in the forest. It was just at the moment that this question became mooted in my mind that I perceived the faint track of a wheel on the short grass of the pathway. I dismounted and examined it closely, and soon discovered its counterpart on the other side of the road; and with a little further search I could detect the footmarks of two horses, evidently unshod.

Inspired with fresh courage by these signs, I spurred Charry to a sharper stride, and for above two hours rode on, each turning of the road suggesting the hope of coming up with the Friar, who evidently journeyed at a brisker pace than I had anticipated. The sailor’s adage says that “A stern chase is a long chase;” and so it is, whether it be on land or sea, – whether the pursuit be to overtake a flying Frenchman or Fortune!

The sun had sunk beneath the tops of the tall trees, and only streamed through, in chance lines of light, upon the road, when suddenly I found myself upon the verge of an abrupt descent, at the bottom of which ran a narrow but rapid river. These great fissures, by which the mountain streams descend to join the larger rivers, are very common in Texas and throughout the region which borders on the Rocky Mountains, and form one of the greatest impediments to travelling in these tracts.

As I gazed upon the steep descent, to have scrambled down which, even on foot, would have been dangerous and difficult enough, I remembered that I had passed, about half an hour before, a spot where the road “forked” off into two separate directions, and at once resumed my march to this place, where I had the satisfaction of perceiving that the grass was yet rising under the recent passage of a wagon. A short and sharp canter down a gentle slope brought me once more in sight of the stream and of what was far nearer to my hopes, the long looked-for party with the Friar.

The scene I now beheld was sufficiently striking for a picture. About fifty feet beneath where I stood, and on the bank of a boiling, foaming torrent, was a wagon, drawn by two large horses; a covering of canvas formed an awning overhead, and curtains of the same material closed the sides. A large, powerful-looking Mexican stood beating the stream with a great pole, while the Friar, with his robes tucked up so as to display a pair of enormous naked legs, assisted in this singular act of flagellation, from time to time addressing a hasty prayer to a small image which I perceived he had hung up against the canvas covering. The noise of the rushing water and the crashing sound of the sticks prevented my hearing the voices, which were most volubly exerted all the while, and which, by accustoming myself to the din, I at last perceived were used in exhorting the horses to courage. The animals, however, gave no token of returning confidence, nor showed the slightest inclination to advance. On the contrary, whenever led forward a pace or two, they invariably sprang back with a bound that threatened to smash their tackle or upset the wagon; nor was it without much caressing and encouragement that they would stand quiet again. Meanwhile, the Friar’s exertions were redoubled at every moment, and both his prayers and his thrashings became more animated. Indeed, it was curious to watch with what agility his bulky figure alternated from the work of beating the water to gesticulating before “the Virgin.” Now, as I looked, a small corner of the canvas curtain was moved aside, and a hand appeared, which, even without the large straw fan it carried, might have been pronounced a female one. This, however, was speedily withdrawn on some observation from the Friar, and the curtain was closed rigidly as before.

All my conjectures as to this singular proceeding being in vain, I resolved to join the party, towards whom I perceived the road led by a slightly circuitous descent.

Cautiously wending my way down this slope, which grew steeper as I advanced, I had scarcely reached the river side when I was perceived by the party. Both the Friar and his follower ceased their performance on the instant, and cast their eyes upwards to the road with a glance that showed they were on “the look-out” for others. They even changed their position, to have a better view of the path, and seemed as if unable to persuade themselves that I could be alone. To my salutation, which I made by courteously removing my hat and bowing low, they offered no return, and looked – as I really believe they were – far too much surprised at my sudden appearance to afford me any signs of welcome. As I came nearer, I could see that the Friar made the circuit of the wagon, and, as if casually, examined the curtains; and then, satisfied “that all was right,” took his station by the head of his beasts, and waited for my approach.

“Good day, Señhor Caballero,” said the Friar, in Spanish, while the Mexican looked at the lock of his long-barrelled rifle, and retired a couple of paces, with a gesture of guarded caution.

“Good evening, rather, Father,” said I, in English. “I have ridden hard to come up with you, for the last twenty miles.”

“From the States?” said the Friar, approaching me, but with no peculiar evidences of pleasure at hearing his native language.

“From your own country, Fra Miguel,” said I, boldly – “an Irishman.”

“And how are you travelling here?” said he, still preserving his previous air of caution and reserve.

“A mistake of the road!” said I, confidently; for already I had invented my last biographical sketch. “I was on the way to Austin, whither I had despatched my servants and baggage, when accidentally taking the turn to Upper Brazos instead of the lower one, I found myself some twenty miles off my track before I knew of it. I should have turned back when I discovered my error, but that I heard that a Friar, a countryman, too, had just set out towards Bexar. This intelligence at once determined me to continue my way, which I rejoice to find has been so far successful.”

To judge from the “Padre’s” face, the pleasure did not appear reciprocal. He looked at me and the wagon alternately, and then he cast his eyes towards the Mexican, who, understanding nothing of English, was evidently holding himself ready for any measures of a hostile character.

“Going to Austin,” at last said the Friar. “You are a merchant, then?”

“No,” said I, smiling superciliously; “I am a mere traveller for pleasure, my object being to make a tour of the prairies, and by some of the Mexican cities, before my return to Europe.”

“Heaven guide and protect you,” said he, fervently, with a wave of his hand like leave-taking. “This is not a land to wander in after nightfall. You are well mounted, and a good rider; push on, then, my son, and you ‘ll reach Bexar before the moon sets.”

“If that be your road, Father,” said I, “as speed is no object with me, I ‘d rather join company with you than proceed alone.”

“Ahem!” said he, looking confused, “I am going to Bexar, it is true, Señhor; but my journey is of the slowest: the wagon is heavy, and a sick companion whom it contains cannot travel fast. Go, then, ‘con Dios!’ and we may meet again at our journey’s end.”

“My mare has got quite enough of it,” said I, my desire to remain with him being trebled by his exertions to get rid of me. “When I overtook you, I was determining to dismount and spare my beast; so that your pace will not in the least inconvenience me.”

The Padre, instead of replying to me, addressed some words to the Mexican in Spanish, which, whatever they were, the other only answered by a sharp slap of his palm on the stock of his rifle, and a very significant glance at his girdle, where a large bowie-knife glittered in all the freedom of its unsheathed splendor. As if not noticing this pantomime, I drew forth my “Harper’s Ferry pistol” from the holster, and examined the priming, – a little bit of display I had the satisfaction to perceive was not thrown away on either the Friar or the layman. At a word from the former, however, the latter began once again his operations with the pole, the Friar resuming his place beside the cattle as if totally forgetful of my presence there.

“May I ask the object of this proceeding, Father?” said I, “which, unless it be a ‘devotional exercise,’ is perfectly unaccountable to me.”

The Padre looked at me without speaking; but the sly drollery of his eye showed that he would have had no objection to bandy a jest with me, were the time and place more fitting. “I perceive,” said he, at length, “that you have not journeyed in this land, or you would have known that at this season the streams abound with caymans and alligators, and that when the cattle have been once attacked by them, they have no courage to cross a river after. Their instinct, however, teaches them that beating the waters insures safety, and many a Mexican horse will not go knee-deep without this ceremony being performed.”

“I see that your cattle are unusually tired in the present case,” said I, “for you have been nigh half an hour here, to my own knowledge.”

“Look at that black marc’s fore-leg, and you ll see why,” said he, pointing to a deep gash, which laid bare the white tendons for some inches in length, while a deep pool of blood flowed around the animal’s hoof.

A cry from the Mexican here broke in upon our colloquy, as, throwing down his pole, he seized his rifle, and dropped upon one knee in the attitude of defence.

“What is it, Sancho?” cried the Friar.

A few words of guttural followed, and the Padre said it was a large alligator that had just carried off a chiguire – a wild pig – under the water with him. This stream is a tributary of the Colloredo, along the banks of which these creatures’ eggs are found in thousands!

My blood ran cold at the horrid thought of being attacked by such animals, and I readily volunteered my assistance at the single-stick exercise of my companion.

The Friar accepted my offer without much graciousness, but rather as that of an unwelcome guest who could not be easily got rid of.

END OF VOL. I.

CHAPTER XXI. A NIGHT IN THE FOREST OF TEXAS

The friar ceased his efforts, and, calling the Mexican to one side, whispered something in a low, cautious manner. The other seemed to demur and hesitate, but, after a brief space, appeared to yield; when, replacing the poles beside the wagon, he turned the horses’ heads towards the road by which they had just come.

“We are about to try a ford some miles farther up the stream,” said the Padre, “and so we commend you to the Virgin, and wish you a prosperous journey.”

“All roads are alike to me, holy Father,” said I, with a coolness that cost me something to assume.

“Then take the shortest, and you’ll be soonest at your journey’s end,” said he, gruffly.

“Who can say that?” rejoined I; “it’s no difficult matter to lose one’s way in a dense forest, where the tracks are unknown.”

“There is but one path, and it cannot be mistaken,” said he, in the same tone.

“It has one great disadvantage, Father,” said I.

“What is that?”

“There is no companionship on it; and, to say truth, I have too much of the Irishman in me to leave good company for the pleasure of travelling all alone.”

“Methinks you have very little of the Irishman about you, in another respect,” said he, with a sneer of no doubtful meaning.

“How so?” said I, eagerly.

“In volunteering your society when it is not sought for, young gentleman,” said he, with a look of steadfast effrontery, – “at least, I can say, such were not the habits of the land as I remember it some forty years ago.”

“Ah, holy Father, it has grown out of many a barbarous custom since your time: the people have given up drinking and faction-fighting, and you may travel fifty miles a day for a week together and never meet with a friar.”

“Peace be with you!” said he, waving his hand, but with a gesture it was easy to see boded more passion than patience.

I hesitated for a second what to do; and at last, feeling that another word might perhaps endanger the victory I had won, I dashed spurs into the mare’s flanks, and, with the shout the ostler had recommended, rushed her at the stream. Over she went, “like a bird,” lighting on the opposite bank with her hind-legs “well up,” and the next moment plunged into the forest.

Scarcely, however, had I proceeded fifty paces than I drew up. The dense wood effectually shut out the river from my view, and even masked the sounds of the rushing water. A suspicion dwelt on my mind that the Friar was not going back, and that he had merely concerted this plan with the Mexican the easier to disembarrass himself of my company. The seeming pertinacity of his purpose suggested an equal obstinacy of resistance on my part. Some will doubtless say that it argued very little pride and a very weak self-esteem in Con Cregan to continue to impose his society where it had been so peremptorily declined; and so had it been, doubtless, had the scene been a great city ruled and regulated by its thousand-and-one conventionalities. But the prairies are separated by something longer than mere miles from the land of kid-gloves and visiting tickets. Ceremonial in such latitudes would be as unsuitable as a court suit.

Besides, I argued thus: “A very underdone slice of tough venison, with a draught of spring water, constitute in these regions a very appetizing meal; and, for the same reason, a very morose friar and a still sulkier servant may be accepted as very tolerable travelling companions. Enjoy better when it can be had, Con, but prefer even the humblest fare to a famine,” – a rule more applicable to mental food than to material.

In a little self-colloquy after this kind, I crept stealthily back, leading Charry by the bridle, and halting at intervals to listen. What a triumph to my skill in divination as I heard the Friar’s loud voice overtopping the gushing flood, while he exhorted his beasts in the most energetic fashion!

I advanced cautiously till I gained a little clump of brushwood, from which I could see the river and the group perfectly. The Friar had now mounted the wagon, and held the reins; the Mexican was, however, standing in the stream and leading the cattle, who appeared to have regained somewhat more of their courage, and were slowly proceeding, sniffing timidly as they went, and pawing the water fretfully.