The Rifle Rangers

In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his short bayonet through his antagonist’s arm, and sent him off with this member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:

“Yer darned skunk! I’ll know yer agin. See if I don’t git yer yit!”

Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire.

The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo.

As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules.

“Good heavens! the Major!”

“Safe somewhere,” replied Clayley; “but where the deuce can he be? He is not hors de combat on the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off. Ha! ha! ha! – look yonder!”

Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.

Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth. Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might. The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension. He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the “other side of the fence.”

The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral.

His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear. He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths.

Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules. The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air. The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse.

After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh. His pursuers, coming up, flung out their lazos. Two of these, settling over his head, noosed him around the neck. The huge brute, as if aware of the necessity of a desperate effort to free himself, dropped his nose to the ground, and stretched himself out in full gallop.

The lariats, one by one tightening over his bony chest, snapped like threads, almost jerking the mustangs from their feet. The long fragments sailed out like streamers as he careered across the prairie, far ahead of his yelling pursuers.

He now made directly for the corral. Several of the soldiers ran towards the stockade, in order to seize the bridle when he should come up; but Hercules, spying his old comrade – the horse of the “Doctor” – within the inclosure, first neighed loudly, and then, throwing all his nerve into the effort, sprang high over the picket fence.

A cheer rose from the men, who had watched with interest his efforts to escape, and who now welcomed him as if he had been one of themselves.

“Two months’ pay for your horse, Major!” cried Clayley.

“Och, the bewtiful baste! He’s worth the full of his skin in goold! By my sowl! the capten ought to have ’im,” ejaculated Chane; and various other encomiums were uttered in honour of Hercules.

Meanwhile, his pursuers, not daring to approach the stockade, drew off towards their comrades with gestures of disappointment and chagrin.

Chapter Twenty.

Running the Gauntlet

I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation – corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men – lancers at that – and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof!

The nearest motte was half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege.

To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive.

As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders.

“Well, Sergeant, what is it?” I inquired.

“Will yer allow me, Cap’n, ter take a couple o’ files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men ’ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin’ robbers kin git at him.”

“Certainly. But will you be safe? He’s at some distance from the stockade.”

“I don’t think them fellers ’ll kum down – they’ve had enuf o’ it just now. We’ll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire.”

“Very well, then; set about it.”

Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles.

The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its “warrior grave”, dragged forth to feed the coyoté and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate?

“Gentlemen,” said I to my brother officers, as we came together, “can you suggest any mode of escape?”

“Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one,” replied Clayey.

“We have no other chance, Captain,” said Oakes, with a shake of the head.

“But it is not their intention to fight us. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure.”

“Cannot we move in a hollow square?”

“But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief.”

“And why not send for it?” inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. “Why not send for a couple of regiments?”

“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”

“Why? – how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”

“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”

The last sentence I muttered to myself.

“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.

“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”

I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.

“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.

Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.

“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.

The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.

“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”

“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”

I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.

“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.

“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”

“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”

“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”

“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”

“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”

“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs – so – cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”

I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper: —

“Dear Colonel,

“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well – if it gets abroad…

“Yours,

“H.H.”

As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear —

“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul – privately, do you hear?”

Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send a private party to my rescue.

“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.

“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”

The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.

For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.

Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.

They now perceived the ruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.

Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.

We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense – of terrible suspense – for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:

“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”

It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.

Note. A motte is an eminence.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Short Fight at “Long Shot”

The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.

They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour’s time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.

Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry.

Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.

“Splendidly done!” exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. “One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would – ”

“Ha! what – ?” shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods.

I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at the débouchement of the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.

Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:

“Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones!” (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)

Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.

“It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we’ll have it now!”

“What did they say?”

“Look for yourself – well?”

“A brass piece, as I live! – a six-pound carronade!”

“We are fighting the guerilla1 of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now.”

“What is to be done?” asked my companion.

“Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better.”

I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound the assembly.

In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral.

“My brave comrades!” cried I, “they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me – if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy.”

A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:

“But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try.”

Another cheer rang along the line.

“Great heaven, Captain! it’s terrible!” whispered the major.

“What is terrible?” I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward.

“Oh! this – this business – such a fix to be – ”

“Major! remember you are a soldier.”

“Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced.”

“Never fear,” said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; “you’ll drink wine at Hewlett’s in a month. Get behind this log – it’s the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade.”

“Do you think, Captain, it will stop a shot?”

“Ay – from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!”

The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy’s artillerists.

At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.

“Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?”

“How am I to prevent them?” I asked, with some surprise.

“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”

“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”

“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”

I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.

“It’s a zündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”

“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.

“This hyur’s the major’s gun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”

It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun – then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.

“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.

“It is.”

“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.

“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.

“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.

“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.

“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”

“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”

Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.

“Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.

As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.

The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.

“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.

In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.

“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”

During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.

Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.

The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.

“Cap’n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”

“Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.

“Him thet’s on the black, makin’ such a dot-rotted muss.”

I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.

“Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.

But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.

“On your faces, men!”

The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.

Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.

Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.

“If he wur only ’ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.

The crack soon followed – the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.

“Ten strike, set ’em up!” exclaimed a soldier.

“Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.

Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.

The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.

A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.

“Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others.”

Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy’s gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.

The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.

Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber.

Lincoln again fired.

This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.

Another shot was fired from the zündnadel, apparently with a similar result.

“It’s beyond her carry, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.

“Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!”

This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming:

“Yankees bobos! mas adelante!” (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)

Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments.