The Queen of the Savannah: A Story of the Mexican War

"My friends," the general said to the persons who surrounded him, "here are the last relics of the troops of those who have oppressed us for three centuries. God has reserved for us the glory of fighting the last battle which will sully the sacred soil of our country with bloodshed. All our brothers have their eyes on us; they ask victory at our hands; shall we disappoint them?"

"No!" the soldiers, electrified by these generous words answered as one man.

"Swear to conquer!" the general continued.

"We swear it!" they exclaimed enthusiastically.

"It is well! I hold your promise, and God has heard it. ¡Méjico e independencia! Each to his post now, for blood is about to flow!"

The officers hastily returned to the positions assigned to them, the soldiers lay down on the grass with their finger on the trigger, and all awaited with palpitating hearts the signal for action. At this moment the two detachments sent forward as scouts separated. Captain Castilla halted while Captain Obregozo formed his columns of attack, and continued his forward march.

When the captain, resolved to carry out his duty thoroughly, entered the defile, a few well-aimed musket shots sufficed to destroy his weak escort, and the officer himself fell with a bullet through his chest. This brave officer was the first victim of this day, so fatal to the Spanish army. Unhappily, many others were fated to follow him. When the second detachment, which hurried up to the aid of the first, followed into the defile, the combat assumed the proportions of a battle.

Unhappily, the Spaniards having no infantry, and covered by invisible foes, fell one after the other with cries of impotent rage. On all sides bullets hailed on them, against which they had no protection, and were unable to reply. At times, a bullet, aimed haphazard, or guided by destiny, reached an object it was not aimed at. The shrubs parted, and a corpse rolling down the precipice fell crushed at the feet of the horses.

But for one man the Mexicans lost the Spaniards lost fifty. The fight was too unequal; it was no longer a combat, but a butchery. Suddenly, a tremendous shout was heard; the earth trembled beneath the hoofs of nearly two thousand horses, and General Cárdenas appeared, his face inflamed with noble ardour, his hair in disorder, leaning over his saddle, with his right arm extended, and his sword hanging from his wrist by a steel chain. Behind him came the whole Spanish army – the real battle was about to begin. The infantry arrived at the double on the flanks of the column, firing into the bushes and shrubs where they saw shots fired. The Spanish general, as an experienced leader, had made the best of a bad position. He had scarce entered the canyon with the cavalry, ere a large infantry corps, facing front and rear, occupied the gorge with two guns levelled on the plain. The general rightly conjectured that his enemies might try to catch him between two fires, which was really the plan of the Mexicans; for, no sooner had the infantry occupied the allotted post than Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, at the head of a considerable body of troops, infantry and cavalry, darted suddenly from the forest which had hitherto concealed him, and dashed furiously on the Spaniards, in order to dislodge them and drive them into the interior of the defile.

An obstinate hand to hand fight at once began. Here, at least, the combat was equal; for the Spaniards could see their enemies. Unhappily, the sharpshooters, concealed behind bushes, covered and decimated them, being most desperate against the artillerymen, whom they mercilessly shot down each time when they went up to reload their guns.

General Cárdenas, in spite of all obstacles – the bullets, lumps of rock, and whole trees showered down on his troops – crossed the whole defile with the rapidity of an arrow. He then perceived, some distance ahead, a barricade erected by the Mexicans to intercept his passage.

"There is the road, boys," the general shouted;

"Forward, forward!"

All dashed on to clear the barricade, but suddenly a battery was unmasked, and death passed along the Spanish ranks. Four howitzers, loaded with canister, thundered simultaneously, sweeping down whole lines of horsemen, and making a bloody gap through the entire column. Two-thirds of this magnificent Spanish cavalry were laid low. The general, lifting his horse with a prodigious effort, had forced the noble animal to mount the face of the barricade.

"Forward!" the general shouted, brandishing his sword over his head and digging his spurs into his horse's belly.

The animal made a last generous effort, and rolled dying in the centre of the Mexicans. General Cárdenas was already on his feet, sword in hand.

"Surrender, surrender!" a numbers of soldiers shouted, as they rushed toward him.

"Nonsense! Does a Spanish general ever surrender?" he said, with a gloomy smile of contempt.

And, whirling his formidable sabre round his head, he drove back the men who had ventured too near him.

"Stop, stop!" Oliver Clary shouted, as he dashed forward. "By heaven, he is a noble soldier; let us grant him the death of a brave man. Defend, yourself, General."

"Thank you, señor," the general replied with a smile; "I expected nothing less from your courtesy."

"A fair fight. Back, señores," the hunter said.

"No, no," a man suddenly shouted, as he hurried to the front. "You are a foreigner, Señor Don Oliver; allow me to settle this quarrel."

The Canadian turned and recognized Don Aníbal de Saldibar.

"Very good," he said, lowering his point with a gesture of respectful deference.

"Do you accept me as an adversary, General?" the hacendero asked.

"I care little whom I fight, señor," the general replied haughtily.

"On guard, then!"

The two blades crossed with a portentous clang. There was something grand and chivalrous in this singular duel in the midst of a battle. The two adversaries, however, had no fear of being separated. The Mexicans had suddenly stopped. As for the Spaniards, decimated by the canister, and discouraged by the loss of their chief, they fought without any order, more for the purpose of selling their lives dearly than in the hope of conquering.

Don Aníbal and General Cárdenas carried on the duel they had so bravely commenced, while the Canadian and other officers kept back the spectators. The general was a very skilful swordsman, but, wearied by the violent exercise he had been taking, and rendered desperate by the probable defeat of his troops, he was not sufficiently master of himself to contend advantageously against an adversary of the strength of Don Aníbal. In a very short time he fell, run through the body. They rushed forward to help him; the general attempted to rise. For the last time, he waved his sword defiantly, and raised to heaven his eyes already glazed with death.

"Long live Spain!" he shouted in a powerful voice, and he fell back. He was dead, like a soldier should die, sword in hand. The battle was won. Of five thousand men that composed the Spanish army, hardly fifteen hundred survived. The Mexicans had conquered, more through the strength of their position and the madness of their enemy, than through their skill and courage. Perhaps, though, it was the will of God, who, in His omniscience, had marked this day as the last of the Spanish rule in Mexico.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE PURSUIT

It was about two p.m. on the day after the battle. Twenty men were encamped in a clearing some ten or twelve miles at the most from the Río Grande del Norte; with the exception of three or four of them, who were attired like Mexican campesinos, the rest appeared to be hunters or wood rangers. The majority were lying asleep on the grass at the foot of the trees, with their heads in the shade and their feet in the sun. Their horses, hobbled and ready to be mounted, were eating their ration of Indian corn spread on woollen blankets, laid on the ground in front of them. Several sentries, leaning on their rifles, watched over the common safety.

A little apart was a group composed of four or five persons, seated on buffalo skins. These persons, whom our readers are well acquainted with, were the Count de Melgosa, Don Aníbal de Saldibar, Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, and Moonshine. Don Aníbal, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, seemed suffering from profound sorrow. The count was looking at him sadly. The Canadian was philosophically smoking his Indian pipe, while at times taking a commiserating look at the hacendero. As for Don Aurelio, he was yawning as if going to put his jaw out, with his back carelessly resting against a tree, his arms folded, and his legs stretched out.

We will now explain to the reader why these persons were collected at this spot. To do so we will go back a little way, and return to the canyon in which the fate of Mexico was decided. The first moments following a victory are always devoted by the victors to joy and delirium, order and discipline no longer exist. Men congratulate each other and run backwards and forwards, singing, laughing, and forgetting all the perils and agony of the struggle. But when minds began to calm, and reason regains its sway, reflection comes, and the sanguinary details of the battle appear in all their horror.

General Don Pelagio Sandoval after giving quarter to the conquered immediately disarmed them, and employed them in removing the wounded and burying the dead. Of all the Spanish soldiers who entered the defile, not a single man had succeeded in escaping to bear to Coahuila the news of this awful defeat. The Mexicans had comparatively lost very few men, although their loss for all that was considerable. The Mexican general resolved to encamp on the battlefield, and his troops were encamped on the plain in front of the mouth of the canyon.

It was about nine in the evening. The bivouac fires formed a brilliant circle round the camp, the soldiers were singing and laughing while narrating to each other the exciting incidents of the battle. The general, who had retired to a jacal of branches built for him, which his troops had lined inside with the flags captured from the enemy, was conversing with Oliver Clary. The Canadian had just finished a story which must have powerfully affected his hearer, for his face was pale, and a burning tear trembled at the end of his lashes.

"Poor Don Aníbal," he said, passing his hand over his eyes, "what a frightful misfortune. This last blow is the most terrible of all. He will not get over it."

"Immediately after the battle," the hunter continued, "Count de Melgosa, who as you know took no part in the action, but constantly remained with the rearguard, came to join the hacendero at the barricade which you ordered him to defend, and at which he fought so bravely."

"I know it, he killed General Cárdenas with his own hand. It is better that it should be so. That man had excited such hatred against himself, that had he lived I should probably have been powerless to protect him in spite of my eager desire to do so."

"The moment was well selected for a confession of the nature which the count had to make to Don Aníbal. The latter, overexcited by the fighting, and intoxicated by the smell of powder, endured this new misfortune with more strength than we had ventured to expect. Still the blow was terrible, and fears were entertained for his life during a moment. He rolled on the ground like an oak uprooted by the hurricane, and for some minutes was a prey to frightful convulsions and a delirium which threatened to change into insanity. Fortunately, the very intensity of the crisis saved him. He recovered, thanked the count and myself for the sympathy we had shown him, sat down on a gun carriage, and after a few nervous spasms managed to weep. Now he is calmer, and you will see him soon, for he means at once to start in pursuit of the Indians."

"Alas, I fear that his search will be unsuccessful. The villain who betrayed him has escaped. Does he know it?"

"Not yet."

"What is to be done? Unluckily, I can only offer him sterile consolation. But I have it," he said, striking his forehead, "that is the very thing. ¡Viva Cristo! if Don Aníbal does not succeed in saving his hapless wife and daughter, he will at any rate be able to catch the scoundrels who carried them off, and sacrifice them to his righteous wrath."

"Ah," said the Canadian, "in what way? I do not know, General, especially as I fear lest the misfortune is greater than you imagine."

"How so; what do you mean, Don Oliver?"

The Canadian reflected for a moment. A strange emotion agitated this brave man, and an expression of vexation, repentance, and timidity appeared on his frank and manly face. The general examined him with surprise.

"Come," he said to him, "speak. I know not why, but I fancy I have still the most frightful part of this frightful story to hear."

"You may be right, General," the Canadian said in a low and almost unintelligible voice.

"Speak; in heaven's name tell me all."

"Nonsense," the adventurer said, "my repentance has been quite enough for me to open my heart to you. General, I have committed one bad action in my life."

"You, my friend?" Don Pelagio exclaimed quickly, "That is impossible."

"Thanks for that remark, General. The opinion you have of me, restores me the courage to complete my confession. Yes, I repeat, I have committed one bad action, the memory of which has incessantly pursued me and filled me with remorse. One day I was a coward."

"Go on," the general interrupted him, with a shake of his head.

"You know," the adventurer continued, with a certain degree of hesitation, and looking down to the ground, "that nearly my whole life has been spent, in traversing the woods, either alone, or in the company of the Indians."

"I know it; go on."

"You lived on this border for a long time; you will doubtless remember the frightful catastrophe in which the Count de Melgosa's brother was assassinated?"

"Wretch! Were you mixed up in that frightful affair?" the general exclaimed.

"No," the Canadian answered with a start of horror, "and yet I was guilty. The count's son was carried off: do you remember it?"

"Alas! The count has never recovered from the effects of that abduction."

"When the redskins returned from that sanguinary expedition, bringing the poor lad with them, there was a grand discussion among them to decide the fate of the weak creature. The majority wished him to be killed, while others asserted, on the other hand, that the child ought to be preserved, in order to be converted into a hostage at a later date. I was present at this discussion; the poor boy cried; I felt an involuntary interest in him, and implored the Indians to give him to me. I succeeded in convincing them by my intreaties, and they granted my request."

"Well?" the general asked anxiously.

"A few weeks later," the Canadian continued, "the Mexican hacenderos took a brilliant revenge. The redskins, surprised in their turn, were massacred without pity. Nothing would have been easier for me at the time than to restore to the heart-broken father the boy who had been so treacherously carried off; but I had sworn not to do so; it was on that condition he was intrusted to me. I did not dare break my promise; still, taking advantage of the confusion, I tried to evade it. I placed the boy in the hands of a servant of Don Aníbal, begging him to deliver him to his master, as I felt convinced that he would be taken care of, and that at a later date I might perhaps be able to restore him alive to the parent who bewailed his death. Years passed, and various events kept me away from these parts, to which I had only accidentally come. Still the memory of this boy incessantly pursued me; my conscience cried to me that I had acted badly. In a word, my remorse became so great that I resolved to return to this country in order to discover the fate of the poor boy I had abandoned, and repair, were it in my power, the evil I had done."

"Good, my friend – good," the general exclaimed, warmly, "now I recognize you. Still, has your search been successful, and have you found the count's son again?"

"Yes," he answered, in a hollow voice; "yes, General, I have a moral certainty that the boy is no other than Don Melchior Díaz."

"Melchior! Thank heaven! Who would not be proud and happy of such a son?"

"As the rapidity of events has not yet allowed me to confirm my suspicions, and convert them into a certainty, I have preserved the greatest silence to everybody, and the count before all."

"You acted prudently."

"Yes," he continued, sorrowfully; "but unhappily Diego López has told me that Don Melchior has left the Hacienda del Río, where he was, in order to start on the track of the redskins."

"Alone?" the general said, with a start of terror. "That is the very thing that terrifies me, General. The poor young man burns with a desire to save Doña Emilia and her daughter; he is ignorant of Indian habits, and I feel convinced that he will allow his ardour to carry him away, and become a victim to his devotion."

"That is only too probable."

"The more so, because the redskins are implacable, and will not hesitate to sacrifice him to their hatred of the Mexicans. Fortunately the count is still ignorant that this young man is his son, as the news would have infallibly killed him."

The general let his head fall on his chest, and sighed. At this moment the door of the jacal was opened, and the count and Don Aníbal entered. In a few hours the hacendero had aged ten years; his pale, worn features, his eyes hollowed by fever, and his wild looks were pitiable to behold.

"General," he said in a faint voice, "Sotavento has escaped; did you know it?"

"I did, my friend," the general said, taking his hand affectionately; "I know it, and am glad of it." His hearers gave a start of surprise.

"This man," the general continued gently, "is a villain of the worst species. The horrible crime of which he has been guilty he must have long been meditating; all his measures were taken so as to throw out your pursuit, the confidence you placed in him only favoured him too thoroughly in the execution of his odious plots."

The hacendero sighed.

"This man would have died sooner than reveal anything to you. You know the Indians. You are aware to what a point they carry their obstinacy; his living and his flight are of more use to you now than his presence or his death would be. Clary, my friend, has the provost marshal told you at what spot the villain escaped?"

"He has, Excellency."

"It is well. This man, however crafty he may be, cannot have disappeared without leaving a trail, and that trail must be lifted: Be assured that it will lead you to the den where this monster has concealed his victims."

"Yes," Don Aníbal observed; "but who will find this trail?"

"Here is the man," the general said, stretching out his arm to the Canadian. "Did you never hear tell of the skill of the Canadians in following a trail?"

"This time, General, my skill would be thrown out," the hunter replied. "Water does not retain a trail."

"Clary," the general said to him, sternly, "why this hesitation? Would you refuse to do what I ask of you?"

"I do not refuse, General," he said sharply, "I only call attention to an impossibility."

"Nothing is impossible when a man has a firm will. Moreover, any discussion is useless," he added, laying a marked stress on his words, "the hour has arrived, and the master awaits for you to answer distinctly."

The hunter started at these words, and said, with a respectful bow —

"Very good, I will obey, since you insist, Excellency. You know that you can do anything with me; but on one condition."

"I will have no conditions."

"Pray listen to one remark."

"Be brief, for time presses."

"I claim the right to choose my companions. We are going to undertake a campaign in which we shall leave our scalps, if not our carcases; and as I am greatly attached to mine, I must be sure of the men I take with me."

"What you ask is quite fair, my friend, and if you have no other condition to make – "

"No other, General."

"Then I grant it."

"Very good; with your leave, I will set to work at once. Two words, however, before I leave you."

"Speak, my friend."

"The desert has its laws, which no one cares to infringe. Personally I have no animosity against the Indians; on the contrary, I have always lived on good terms with them, and only a few days ago a Comanche chief welcomed me to his camp as a friend."

"What conclusion do you draw from that?"

"None at all; still, as I must break these pleasant relations, I request, once again, that the whole management of this affair may be left in my hands. Before mounting, I will come to an understanding with my friend, Moonshine."

"Very good."

"Don Aníbal, you will let yourself be guided by me; for I presume that you intend to accompany us?"

"Can you doubt it, señor?"

"Well, it would, perhaps, be better for you to remain with the general."

"No, no, I will go on this expedition; for no one is more interested than myself in its success."

"That is true. Well, as you please."

"I, too, will accompany you, Don Oliver," said the count.

"Very well, caballero."

"But there is another person who would not forgive you for leaving him behind. Don Melchior Díaz; you will not forget to warn him, I trust, señor, for you know that we promised it to him."

The general and the hunter exchanged a meaning glance.

"That is my business," the former remarked, "so do not trouble yourself, Señor Conde."

"Now, I will be off," the Canadian continued; "however long my absence may be, do not feel anxious about it. When I rejoin you, I shall be perfectly sure of the road we have to follow."

"Can you not tell us, at least, who the people are you mean to take with you?"

"Nothing is easier; they are men like myself, hunters and adventurers belonging to my cuadrilla, accustomed to a desert life and Indian tricks. Soldiers would do us more harm than good. In this expedition, courage takes the second place; skill and craftiness alone can ensure our success. Good-bye, good-bye, all is arranged; I shall be back soon."

"Go, my friend, and luck be with you," the general said, affectionately.

"All that it is possible to attempt, General, I will do. Good-bye."

The hunter went out.

"That is all the assistance I can offer you, Don Aníbal; I wish that I could do more. Place the most perfect confidence in this adventurer; he is a man of heart, thoroughly devoted and intelligent."

"I have been able to appreciate him under critical circumstances," the count said, "and I have the best opinion of him."

"Heaven grant that his help may prove effectual," Don Aníbal murmured, with a sigh.

"Hope, my friend, hope. God will not abandon you."

Don Aníbal only answered with a sigh more profound than the first, and, after taking leave of the general, he and the count proceeded to the spot where the cuadrilla of the adventurers was encamped.

"Poor man!" the general muttered, as he saw the hacendero retire. "Will he succeed in saving the two unhappy captives? Alas!"

He shook his head doubtfully, and fell back into his meditations.

"Are you ready to start?" Moonshine asked the two gentlemen on seeing them.

"At once?" the count asked.

"Well, that will be better for what we have to do."

"Have we the time to go and fetch our horses?"

"Your peon has brought them."

Fifteen adventurers, already mounted, were waiting, motionless and silent. They were men with bold features and a resolute air, whose bronzed faces testified to the fatigue they had endured in their rough profession. A few minutes later the little band quitted the camp at a gallop, and went out into the plain under the guidance of Moonshine. It was a cold night, as most American nights are. The men wrapped themselves carefully in their cloaks, to escape being saturated by the chilling dew, which fell upon them in an abundance unknown in our climate; and they rode sharply till sunrise without exchanging a word. At about four in the morning they halted to give their horses a rest.

"Are we going to stop?" Don Aníbal asked. These were the first words he had spoken since they started.