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The footpads stood aghast. They had not expected such a determined resistance; and, if left to themselves, in all probability, I should have seen no more of them that night.
If left to themselves, I could have dealt with them conveniently enough. In truth, I could have taken the lives of all three, as they stood in their speechless bewilderment.
I held in my hand a Colt’s six-shooter, Number 2; another in my belt; twelve shots in all – sure as the best percussion caps and careful loading could make them. A fourth of the shots would have sufficed: for I had no thought of taking uncertain aim.
Despite the cause given me for excitement, I never felt cooler in my life – that is for a combat. For an hour before, my nerves had been undergoing a strain, that served only to strengthen them.
I had been in want of something upon which to pour out my gathering wrath; and here was the thing itself. God, or the devil, seemed to have sent the three thieves as a safety-valve to my swollen passion – a sort of target on which to expend it!
Jesting apart, I thought so at the time; and so sure was I of being able to immolate the trio at my leisure, that I only hesitated as to which of them I should shoot down first!
You may be incredulous. I can assure you that the scene I am describing is no mere romance, but the transcript of a real occurrence. So also are the thoughts associated with it.
I stood eyeing my assailants, undecided about the selection.
I had my finger on the trigger; but, before pressing it, a quick reflection came into my mind that restrained me from shooting.
It was still early – not quite ten o’clock – and the pavement was alive with passengers. I had passed several on entering the little street; and, from the place where I stood, I could see a dozen dark forms flitting about, or loitering by the doors of the houses.
They were all leperos of the low quarter.
The report of my pistol would bring a crowd of them around me; and, although I might disembarrass myself of the footpads, I should be in as much, or more, danger from the patriotas!
I was quite sensible of the perilous situation in which I had placed myself by my imprudent promenade.
As the robbers appeared to have given up their design upon my purse, and were making their best speed to get out of reach of my pistol, I thought the wisest way would be to let them go off.
With this design I was about to content myself – only staying to pick up my cloak, that in the struggle had fallen from my shoulders.
Having recovered it, I commenced taking my departure from the place.
I had not gone six paces, when I became half convinced that I had made a mistake, and that it would have been better to have killed the three thieves. After doing so, I might have found time to steal off unobserved.
Allowing them to escape, I had given them the opportunity to return in greater strength, and under a different pretence from that of their former profession.
A cry that all three raised as they ran down the street, was answered by a score of other voices; and, before I had time to make out its meaning, I was surrounded by a circle of faces, scowling upon me with an expression of unmistakeable hostility.
Were they all robbers – associates of the three who had assaulted me?
Had I chanced into one of those streets entirely abandoned to the thieving fraternity – such as may be found in European cities – where the guardians of the night do not dare to shew their faces?
This was my first impression, as I noted the angry looks and hostile attitude of those who came clustering around me.
It became quickly changed, as I listened to the phrase, fiercely vociferated in my ears:
“Dios y Libertad! Muera el Americano!”
The discomfited footpads had returned upon a new tack. They had seen my uniform, as it became uncloaked in the struggle; and, under a pretence of patriotism, were now about to take satisfaction for their discomfiture and disappointment.
By good fortune I was standing upon a spot where there was a tolerable light – thrown upon the street by a couple of lamps suspended near.
Had it been darker, I might have been set upon at once, and cut down, before I could distinguish my antagonists. But the light benefited me in a different way. It exposed to my new assailants a brace of Colt’s revolvers – one held in hand and ready to be discharged; the other ready to be drawn.
The knife was their weapon. I could see a dozen blades bared simultaneously around me; but to get to such close quarters would cost some of them their lives.
They had the sharpness to perceive it; and halting at several paces distance – formed a sort of irregular ring around me.
It was not a complete circle, but only the half: for I had taken my stand against the front of a house, close to its doorway.
It was a lucky thought, or instinct: since it prevented my being assailed from the rear.
“What do you want?” I asked, addressing my antagonists in their own tongue – which by good fortune I spoke with sufficient purity.
“Your life!” was the laconic reply, spoken by a man of sinister aspect, “your life, filibustero! And we mean to have it. So you may as well put up your pistol. If not, we’ll take it from you. Yield, Yankee, if you don’t want to be killed on the spot!”
“You may kill me,” I responded, looking the ruffian full in the face, “but not till after I’ve killed you, worthy sir. You hear me, cavallero! The first that stirs a step towards me, will go down in his tracks. It will be yourself – if you have the courage to come first.”
I cannot describe how I felt at that queer crisis. I only remember that I was as cool, as if rehearsing the scene for amusement – instead of being engaged in a real and true tragedy that must speedily terminate in death!
My coolness, perhaps, sprang from despair, or an instinct that nought else could avail me.
My words, with the gestures that accompanied them, were not without effect. The tall man, who appeared to lead the party, saw that I had selected him for my first shot, and cowered back into the thick of the crowd.
But among his associates there were some of more courage, or greater determination; and the cry, “Muera el Americano!” once more shouted on all sides, gave a fresh stimulus to the passions of the patriotas.
Besides, the crowd was constantly growing greater, through fresh arrivals in the street. I could see that the six-shooter would not much longer keep my assailants at a distance.
There appeared not the slightest chance of escape. A death, certain as cruel – sudden, terrible to contemplate – stared me in the face. I saw no way of avoiding it. I had no thought of there being a possibility to do so – no thought of anything, save selling my life as dearly as I could.
Before falling, I should make a hecatomb of my cowardly assassins.
I saw no pistols or other firearms in their hands – nothing but knives and machetés. They could only reach me from the front; and, before they could close upon me, I felt certain of being able to discharge every chamber of my two revolvers. At least half a dozen of my enemies were doomed to die before me.
I was in a splendid position for defence. The house against which I had been brought to bay was built of adobés, with walls full three feet thick. The door was indented to a depth of at least two. I stood with my back against it, the jambs on both sides protecting me. My position was that of the badger in the barrel attacked by terriers.
How long I might have been permitted to hold it is a question I will not undertake to answer. No doubt it would have depended upon the courage of my assailants, and the stimulus supplied by that patriotic cry still shouted out, “Muera el Americano!”
But none of those who were shouting had reached that climax of recklessness, to rush upon the certain death which I stood ready to deal out.
They obstructed the doorway in front, and in a close threatening phalanx – like a pack of angry hounds holding a stag at bay, the boldest fearing to spring forward.
Despite the knowledge that it was a terrible tragedy, I could not help fancying it a farce: so long and carefully did my assailants keep at arm’s length.
Still more like a burlesque might it have appeared to a spectator, as I fell upon the broad of my back – kicking up my heels upon the door-stoup!
It was neither shot, nor stab, that had caused this sudden change in my attitude; but simply the opening of the door, against which I had been supporting myself.
Some one inside had drawn the bolt, and, by doing so, removed the support from behind me!
Chapter Ten.
The Street of the Sparrows
As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact with the legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise have stunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.
I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain my feet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.
As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see something shining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hilt was in his hand.
My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to intercept my retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could I expect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?
It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by the front door was out of the question. Double barring it would make things no worse.
Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible. Was there a back door? Or a stair up to the azotea?
My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them they lost part of their importance. The man was standing with his back towards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries had followed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they been left to their predilections.
But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door to admit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemed not the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.
As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steel shooting out in front – while he commanded the people to keep back.
The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a long toledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of the lamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence. There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.
He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.
“Leperos!” he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking to inferiors; “What is this disturbance? What are you after?”
“An enemy! A Yankee!”
“Carrambo! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearance you are right,” continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turned half round in the doorway. “But what’s the use?” he continued. “What advantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?”
I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker the handsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Señor!
A bitter chance that should have made him my protector!
“Let them come on!” I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; “I need no protection from you, sir – thanks all the same! I hold the lives of at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, they shall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter the cowardly rabble. Aside, sir!”
If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.
“Carrambo, señor!” he responded, without showing himself in the least chafed by my ungrateful answer. “You are perhaps not aware of the danger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man.”
“You’ll say it, capitano!” shouted one on the outside. “Why not? The Yankee has insulted you. Let’s punish him, if it be only for that!”
“Muera! Muera el Americano!”
My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards the door.
“Al atras, leperos!” shouted my protector. “The first that sets foot over my threshold – humble as it is – I shall spit upon my sword, like a piece of tasajo. You are very brave here in the Callecito de los Pajaros! I doubt whether there’s one among you who has met the enemy – either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!”
“You’re mistaken there, capitan Moreno!” answered a tall dark man who stood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief of the trio who had first attacked me, “Here’s one who has been in both the battles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, not like your noble self – a prisoner upon parole!”
“Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?” sneeringly retorted my protector. “I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind. No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time when prisoners were being taken?”
“Carajo!” screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid with rage. “You say that? You have heard it, camarados? Capitan Moreno sets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of our accursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation – we the citizens of Puebla!”
“No – no, we won’t stand it. Muera el Americano! The Yankee must be delivered up!”
“You must take him, then,” coolly responded Moreno, “at the point of my sword.”
“And at the muzzle of my pistol,” I added, springing to the side of my generous host – determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.
This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrasco and his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and, instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and silent.
They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and this no doubt for the time restrained them.
But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon – first used in battle in that same campaign – and its destructive powers, by report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.
Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo – quick and sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots – what would all have availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen before their fury.
It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet, by my honour, it did exist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in my life.
I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound gratitude – first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for making such a noble man!
The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.
I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate. What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.
My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.
As we stood silent – both defenders and those threatening to attack – a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.
There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it: – the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.
Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the “Street of the Sparrows.”
“La guardia! La patrulla Americana!” (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.
My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth – thinking my assailants would now make way for me.
But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.
Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise – with their knives and machetés only demonstrating in silence!
I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.
If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost – surely sacrificed!
What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the fracas, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late – to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?
