The Indian Chief: The Story of a Revolution

"You said, sir, that the count had done us the honour of coming to hear the propositions we had to make to him."

"Well, sir?"

"That is just where the mistake lies, Don Valentine."

"How so, Señor Anastasio?"

"It appears to me that we have no propositions to make to the count, but that we, on the contrary, should listen to his."

A murmur of assent ran through the audience. Don Louis saw it was time to interfere.

"Gentlemen," he said, bowing gracefully to the hacenderos, "will you allow me to have a frank explanation with you? I am convinced that when I have done so any misunderstanding will be removed, and we shall comprehend each other perfectly."

"Speak, speak, señor!" they said.

"Gentlemen," he went on, "will not here enter into any personal details. I will not tell you how or why I arrived at Guaymas – in what way the Government of Mexico, after breaking all the promises it made me, ended by declaring me an enemy of the country, placed me without the pale of society, and carried its impudence so far as to treat me as a pirate, and set a price on my head, as if I were a bandit or wretched assassin; for that would cause the loss of precious moments, and be a gratuitous abuse of your patience, as you all know thoroughly what has occurred."

"Yes, señor conde," the hacendero who had already spoken interrupted him, "we know the facts to which you allude: we deplore them, and blush for the honour of our country."

"I thank you, gentlemen, for these marks, of sympathy: they are very sweet to me, as they prove that you are not mistaken as to my character. I will come to facts without further circumlocution."

"Hear, hear!" the audience murmured.

The count waited a few moments, and when silence was completely restored he continued: —

"Gentlemen, Sonora is the most fertile and richest country not only of Mexico, but of the whole universe. By its position at the extremity of the centre of the Confederation, from which it is divided by lofty mountains and vast despoblados, Sonora is a country apart, destined, in a speedy future, to separate itself from the Mexican Confederation. Sonora is sufficient for itself. The other provinces supply it with nothing; on the contrary, Sonora supports and enriches them with the surplus of its produce. But Sonora, owing to the system of oppression under which it groans, is, properly speaking, only a vast desert. The greater part of its territory is uncultivated, for the Government of Mexico, which knows so well how to squeeze it, and seize the productions of its soil, and the gold and silver of its mines, is impotent to protect it against the enemies that surround it – the Indios Bravos, whose incursions, annually becoming more insolent, threaten to grow even more so, unless a speedy remedy is applied, and the evil uprooted. I said, at the outset, that within a short period Sonora would be separated from the Mexican Confederation. Let me explain myself. This will happen inevitably, but in two different ways, according to the advantage the inhabitants will derive from it. Sonora is menaced by powerful enemies other than the Indians. These enemies are the North Americans, those Wandering Jews of civilisation, whose axes you may hear felling the trees of the last forests that separate you, and who will soon invade and occupy your country, unless you take care; and it will be impossible for you to offer the slightest resistance to this unjust conquest, for you have no support to expect from your Government, which consumes all its energies in the purposeless and universal contests of the cabecillas, who seize on the power in turn."

"Yes, yes," several persons exclaimed, "that is true; the count is right."

"This conquest with which you are menaced is imminent – it is inevitable; and then what will happen, gentlemen? What has happened wherever the Yankees have succeeded in planting themselves. You will be absorbed by them: your language, customs, even your religion, all will be submerged in this flood. See what has occurred in Texas, and shudder at the thought of what awaits you soon!"

A thrill of anger ran through the assembly at these words, of which each recognised the justice in his heart. The count went on: —

"You have a means to escape this frightful evil; it is in your hands – it depends on you alone."

"Speak, speak!" was shouted on every side.

"Declare your independence loudly, frankly, and energetically. Separate yourselves boldly from Mexico, form the Sonorian Confederation, and call to your aid the French emigrants in California. They will not remain deaf to your appeal: they will come to help you not only in conquering, but also in maintaining your independence against your enemies within and without. The Frenchmen whom you adopt will become your brothers: they have the same religion, almost the same habits as yourselves; in a word, you belong to the same race. You will easily understand each other. They will erect an impassable barrier against North American invasion, make the Indians respect your frontiers, and compel the Mexicans to recognise the right you have proclaimed of being free."

"But," one of the company objected, "if we call the French to our aid, what will they ask of us in return?"

"The right of cultivating your lands which lie fallow," the count answered energetically; "of bringing to you progress, the arts, and industry; in one word, of peopling your deserts, enriching your towns, and civilising your villages: that is what the French will ask. Is it too much?"

"No, certainly, it is not," Don Anastasio said amid a murmur of assent.

"But," another objected, "who guarantees us that, when the moment arrives to settle our accounts with the colonists we have summoned to our aid, they will faithfully fulfil the promises they have made us, and not insist, in their turn, on dictating laws to us, by taking advantage of their number and strength?"

"I, caballeros, I, who in their name will treat with you, and assume the responsibility of everything."

"Yes, the prospective of which you allow us a glimpse is seductive, caballero," Don Anastasio answered in the name of all. "We recognise the truth of the facts you tell us. We know only too well how precarious our position is, and what great dangers menace us; but a scruple causes us to refrain at this moment. Have we the right to plunge our unhappy country, already half ruined, in the horrors of a civil war, when in this unfortunate land nothing is prepared for an energetic resistance? The Government of Mexico, so weak for good, is powerful for evil, and it will manage to find troops to reduce us if we revolt. General Guerrero is an experienced officer – a cold and cruel man, who will recoil before no extremity, however terrible its nature, to stifle in blood any attempt at insurrection. In a few days he has succeeded in collecting a powerful army to conquer us: each of your soldiers, in the coming contest, will have to fight against ten. However brave the French may be, it is impossible for them to resist such an imposing force. A battle lost, and all is over with you. Any armed opposition will become impossible, and you will drag us down in your fall if we help you; and we have the more to fear, because our position is not like yours. We are sons of the country: we have in it our families and fortunes. We have, therefore, everything to lose; while you, on the other hand, supposing you are beaten, and your enterprise completely fails, have a means of safety we cannot employ, in flight. These considerations are serious. They oblige us to act with the greatest prudence, and reflect deeply, before determining to shake off the detested yoke of Mexico. Do not believe, caballero, that we speak thus through cowardice or weakness. No, it is solely through the fear of failure, and the loss, in the shipwreck, of the few shreds of liberty which, through policy, they have not yet dared to tear from us, and which they possibly only need a pretext to assail."

"Gentlemen," the count answered, "I appreciate at their full value the motives you have been good enough to lay before me. Still, permit me to observe that, however serious the objections may be you do me the honour of laying before me, we are not here to discuss them. The object of our meeting is an offensive and defensive alliance between yourselves and me, is it not?"

"Certainly," most of the audience exclaimed, surprised by the count's sudden change of position, and led to speak, perhaps involuntarily, more hurriedly than they had intended.

"Well," the count continued, "let us not waste our time, like those tradesmen who boast to each other about the quality of their wares. Let us go straight to our object, frankly, clearly, and like men of honour. Tell me, without any concealment, on what conditions you consent to form an alliance with me and give me your support, and the number of men I can count on when the right moment arrives."

"That is the right way to speak, señor conde," Don Anastasio replied. "Well, to a question so clearly asked, we will answer no less clearly. We do not doubt (Heaven forbid we should!) either the courage or strategic skill of your soldiers: we know that the French are brave. Still your band is not large: up to the present it has no support, and only possesses the patch of ground on which it is encamped. Establish a solid base of operations – seize, for instance, one of the three chief cities of Sonora – then you will no longer be adventurers, but really soldiers; and we shall no longer fear to treat with you, because your expedition will have gained consistency – in one word, have become earnest."

"Very good, gentlemen; I understand you," the count answered coldly. "And, in case I succeed in carrying one of the cities you mention, I can count on you?"

"Body and soul."

"And how many men will you place at my disposal?"

"Six thousand in four days – the whole of Sonora in a week."

"You promise it?"

"We all swear it!" they exclaimed enthusiastically.

But this enthusiasm could not produce a flash or smile on the count's face.

"Gentlemen," he said, "within a fortnight I give you the meeting in one of the three chief cities of Sonora; and then, as I shall have accomplished my obligations, I shall call on you to keep yours."

The Mexicans could not restrain a gesture of astonishment and admiration at these noble words. The count, though no longer young, was still handsome, and gifted with that fascination which improvises kingdoms. Each of his phrases left a memory. All present came in turn to press his hand, and renew individually their protestations of devotion, after which they left the room. The count and Valentine remained alone.

"Are you satisfied, brother?" the hunter asked him.

"Who could be strong enough to galvanise this people?" the count muttered with a mournful shrug of his shoulders, and rather answering his own thoughts than the question his friend had addressed to him. The two men went to fetch their zarapés. They found their escort where they had left it, and retired slowly through the crowd, who saluted them as they passed with shouts of "Vivan los Franceses!"

"If I come to be shot some day," the count said bitterly, "they will only have to alter one word."

Valentine sighed, but made no reply.

CHAPTER XVI

FATHER SERAPHIN

Doña Angela had just awakened: a sportive sunbeam, passing indiscreetly over her charming face, had made her open her eyes. She was lying half extended in her hammock, with her head supported on her right arm, and was pensively looking at the swan's-down slipper which she was idly balancing on her dainty little foot. Violanta, seated at her foot on a stool, was busily arranging the various articles of her mistress's toilette. At length Doña Angela shook off her careless languor, and a smile played on her coral lips.

"Today," she said, as she raised her head coquettishly.

This one word contained the maiden's thoughts, her joy, love, happiness – her whole life, in fact. She fell back in a reverie, yielding herself up unconsciously to the delicate and busy services of her waiting-maid. The sound of a footstep was heard outside, and Doña Angela raised her head quickly.

"Someone is coming," she said.

Violanta went out, but returned almost immediately.

"Well?"

"Don Cornelio requests permission to say two words to the señorita," the camarista answered.

The maiden frowned with an air of vexation.

"What can he want again?" she said.

"I do not know."

"That man displeases me singularly."

"I will tell him that you cannot receive him."

"No," she said quickly, "let him enter."

"Why, if he displeases you?"

"I prefer seeing him. I do not know why, but that man almost terrifies me."

The waiting maid blushed and turned her head away, but recovered almost immediately.

"Still he is entirely devoted to Don Louis and yourself, señorita."

"Do you think so?" she said, fixing a piercing glance on her.

"Well, I suppose so; his conduct up to the present has been most honourable."

"Yes," she murmured dreamily. "Still there is something at the bottom of my heart which tells me that this man hates me. I experience, on seeing him, an insurmountable feeling of repulsion. This is something inexplicable to me; but, though everything seems to prove to me that I am wrong, still, whether right or wrong, there is at times an expression in his glance which makes me shudder. The only thing a man cannot disguise is his look, for it is the reflex of his soul, and God has decreed it so, in order that we may put ourselves on our guard, and recognise our enemies. But he is doubtlessly tired of waiting. Let him come in."

Violanta hastened to execute her mistress's orders. Don Cornelio entered with a smile on his lips.

"Señorita," he said, after a graceful bow, which the maiden returned without leaving her hammock, "pardon me for daring to trouble your solitude; but a worthy priest, a French missionary, desires that you will grant him the favour of a few minutes' interview."

"What is the missionary's name, Señor Don Cornelio?"

"Father Seraphin, I believe, señorita."

"Why does he not address himself to Don Louis?"

"He intended to do so in the first instance."

"Well?"

"But," Don Cornelio continued, "at sunrise Don Louis left the camp, accompanied by Don Valentine; and though it is now near midday, he has not yet returned."

"Ah! Where did Don Louis go to at so early an hour?"

"I cannot tell you, señorita. All that I know for certain is, that he proceeded in the direction of La Magdalena."

"Has anything new occurred?"

"Nothing I am aware of, señorita."

There were a few moments of silence, during which Doña Angela was reflecting. At length she continued:

"And do you not suspect what this missionary wishes to say to me, Don Cornelio?"

"In no way, señorita."

"Beg him to come in. I shall be happy to see and converse with him."

Violanta, without giving Don Cornelio time to reply, raised the curtain that closed the entrance of the jacal.

"Come in, my father," she said.

The missionary appeared. Doña Angela greeted him respectfully, and pointed to a chair.

"You wish to speak with me, my father?" she said.

"Yes, madam," he replied with a bow.

"I am ready to listen to you."

The missionary looked round in a way that Don Cornelio and the waiting maid understood, for they went out at once.

"Cannot what you have to say to me be heard by that girl, who is devoted to me?"

"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should try to lessen the confidence you place in that person, but allow me to give you a little piece of advice."

"Pray do so."

"It is often dangerous to confide your secret thoughts to persons in a lower station than yourself."

"Yes, that may be true in theory, my father, but I will not discuss it. Be kind enough to explain to me the reason of your visit."

"I am grieved, madam, at having hurt your feelings without wishing it. Pardon an observation which you considered indiscreet, and may Heaven grant that I am deceived!"

"No, my father, no; I did not consider your remark indiscreet. But I am a spoiled child, and it is my place to ask your forgiveness."

At this moment the sound of horses was heard in the camp. Violanta raised the curtain.

"Don Louis has arrived," she said.

"Let him come hither at once," Doña Angela exclaimed.

The missionary gazed on her with an expression of gentle pity. A few minutes later Don Louis and Valentine entered the jacal. The hunter walked up to the missionary, and pressed his hand affectionately.

"Have you come from the general, my father?" the count asked him quickly.

"Alas, no!" he answered. "The general is unaware of my coming; for had he known of it, he would probably have tried to oppose it."

"What do you mean? Speak, in Heaven's name!"

"Alas! I am about to redouble your agony and your sorrow. General Guerrero never intended to bestow on you this lady's hand. I cannot tell you what I have seen or heard, for my office forbids it; but I am a Frenchman, sir – that is to say, your fellow countryman – and I believe my duty orders me to warn you that treachery surrounds you on all sides, and that the general is trying to lull your vigilance by fallacious promises, in order to surprise you and finish with you."

Don Louis let his head sink on his chest.

"In that case, sir," he said presently, "with what object have you come here?"

"I will tell you. The general wishes to get back his daughter, and, to effect that, all means will be good. Permit me to draw your attention to the fact that, under present circumstances, the lady's presence here is not only a danger for you, but also an ineffaceable stain on her honour."

"Sir!" the count exclaimed.

"Deign to listen to me," the missionary continued coldly. "I do not doubt either your honour or the lady's; but you have no power, to my knowledge, to impose silence on your enemies, and stop the immense flood of calumny they pour out on you and her. Unhappily your conduct seems to justify them."

"But what is to be done? What means shall I employ?"

"There is one."

"Speak, my father."

"This is what I propose. You intend to marry this lady?"

"Certainly; you know that is my dearest wish."

"Let me finish. The marriage must not be celebrated here; for such a ceremony, performed in the midst of a camp of adventurers, without witnesses, would seem a mockery."

"But – "

"It must take place in a city, in the presence of the entire population, in the broad sunshine, to the sound of the bells and cannon, which, traversing the air, will tell all that the marriage has really taken place."

"Yes," Valentine remarked, "Father Seraphin is right; for then Doña Angela will no longer marry a pirate, but a conqueror, with whom terms must be made. She will not be the wife of an adventurer, but of the liberator of Sonora, and those who blame her today will be the first to sing her praises."

"Yes, yes, that is true!" the maiden cried with fire. "I thank you, my father, for coming. My duty is laid down: I will accomplish it. Who will dare to attack the reputation of her who has married the saviour of her country?"

"Still," the count remarked, "this is only a palliative, after all. The marriage cannot take place yet. A fortnight, perhaps a month, will elapse ere I have rendered myself master of a city. Till then Doña Angela must remain in the camp where she has hitherto been."

All eyes were anxiously turned to the missionary.

"No," he said, "if the young lady will allow me to offer her a shelter."

"A shelter!" she said with an inquiring glance.

"Very simple and most unworthy to receive her, doubtlessly," he continued, "but where at least she will be in safety, in the midst of a family of honourable and good persons, to whom it will be a delight to receive her."

"Is the shelter you offer me, my father, very far from here?" the maiden asked quickly.

"Twenty-five leagues at the most, in the direction in which the French expedition must proceed on its march into Sonora."

Doña Angela gave a cunning smile at having been so well understood by the good priest.

"Listen, my father," she said with that resolution which was one of the principal features of her character. "Your reputation reached me long ago, and I know that you are a holy man. Even if I did not know you, the friendship and respect Don Valentine professes for you would be to me a sufficient guarantee. I trust myself in your hands. I understand how unsuitable my presence in the camp now, at any rate, is. Take me wherever you please. I am ready to follow you."

"My child," the missionary said with charming unction, "it is God who inspires this determination. The grief you will feel at a separation of a few days at the most will double the happiness of a reunion which no one will dare any longer to oppose – which will not only raise you again in the public opinion, which it is always precious to preserve, but also give your reputation a lustre which it will be hopeless to try and tarnish."

"Go, then, as it must be so, Doña Angela," the count said. "I intrust you to this good padre; but I swear that a fortnight shall not elapse ere we are again together."

"I hold your promise, Don Louis; it will help me to endure with greater courage the agony of absence."

"When do you expect to start?" Valentine asked.

"Now," the maiden exclaimed. "As the separation is inevitable, let us get over it at once."

"Well spoken," Valentine said. "By Jove! I return to what I said before, Doña Angela – you are a strong and nobly courageous woman; and, by heavens, I love you as a sister!"

Doña Angela could not refrain from smiling at the hunter's enthusiasm. The latter continued: —

"Hang it! But we did not think of that; you will need an escort – "

"For what?" the priest asked simply.

"By Jove! you are really delightful. Why, to protect you against the enemy's marauders."

"My friend, the respect of everybody we meet will be worth more to us than an escort, which is often compromising."

"For you, I grants but, my father, you do not remember that you will travel with two females who must be immediately recognised."

"That is true," he said simply; "I did not think of it."

"What is to be done, then?"

Doña Angela began laughing.

"Gentlemen, you are really troubled by a very trifling matter. The good father said an instant back, that the gown is the best safeguard, for friend and foe will respect it under all circumstances."

"That is true," the missionary said in confirmation.

"Well, it is extremely simple. If Father Seraphin has no objection, my waiting maid and myself will put on novices' robes, under which it will be easy for us to disguise ourselves so cleverly that no one can recognise us."

Father Seraphin seemed to be reflecting profoundly for a few moments.

"I see no serious obstacles to this disguisement," he at length observed: "under the circumstances it is permissible, as it will serve a good object."

"But where shall we find monks' robes?" the count objected, half seriously, half laughing. "I must confess that my camp is completely out of them."

"I will take that on myself," Valentine said. "I will send to La Magdalena a safe man, who can bring them back within an hour: during that time Doña Angela will complete her preparations for departure."

No one made any objection, and the maiden was left alone. Less than an hour after, Doña Angela and Violanta, dressed in monks' robes which Don Cornelio had purchased in the village, and with their faces concealed under broad-brimmed hats, mounted their horses, and, after bidding a warm farewell to their companions, they left the camp, accompanied by Father Seraphin. On separating, Violanta and Don Cornelio exchanged a secret glance, which would have given the count and Valentine matter for serious thought, could they have seen it.

"I am not easy in my mind," Don Louis muttered, shaking his head sadly. "A priest is a very weak escort in the present times."

"Reassure yourself," Valentine answered; "I have provided for that."

"Oh! you always think of everything, brother."

"Is it not my duty? Now let us attend to ourselves. The night will soon fall, and we must take our precautions not to let ourselves be surprised."