The Indian Chief: The Story of a Revolution

The adventurers had piled their arms, and had already forgotten all their rancour: they were laughing and talking gaily together. Valentine and Curumilla had rejoined the count.

"What is your intention?" the hunter asked.

"Have you not guessed it?" Louis replied. "I pardon them."

"All?"

"Of course," he said with surprise.

"Then you will restore them to liberty?"

"Yes."

"Hum!" the hunter said.

"Do you see anything to prevent it?"

"Possibly."

"Explain yourself."

"I see no harm in your forgiving the Indians, for that may produce a good effect among the tribes, especially as the redskins have an excellent memory, and will long remember the severe lesson they received this night."

"Well?"

"But," the hunter went on, "all those men are not Indians."

"What do you mean?"

"That there are disguised Mexicans among them."

"You are certain of that?"

"Yes, the more so because I was warned by the man who commands the horsemen that proved such useful auxiliaries to you."

"But are not those horsemen Apaches?"

"You are mistaken, my dear friend: they are white men, and what is more, cívicos; that is to say, men paid and enrolled by the hacenderos to chase the Indians. You see how honourably they carry out their duties; but that must not astonish you, for you are sufficiently well acquainted with the manners of this country to find that perfectly natural, I have no doubt."

Louis stopped thoughtfully.

"What you tell me confounds me," he muttered.

"Why so?" the hunter replied carelessly. "It is, on the contrary, most simple. But we have not to trouble ourselves about the horsemen at present – they are beside the question."

"Certainly. Indeed, I owe them my thanks."

"They will save you the trouble, and I too. Let us only deal with the men down there."

"Then you are sure there are white men among them?"

"Quite sure."

"But how to recognise them?"

"Curumilla will undertake that."

"What you tell me is strange. For what purpose are these men leagued with our enemies?"

"We shall soon know that."

They then went on, and stood by the group. Valentine made a sign to Curumilla: the chief then approached the Indians, and began examining them attentively in turn, the count and Valentine watching him with considerable interest. The Araucano was as cold and gloomy as usual – not a muscle of his face quivered. On seeing him examine them thus, the Indians could not refrain from shuddering: they trembled at the sight of this dumb and unarmed man, whose piercing glance seemed to try and read their hearts; Curumilla laid his finger on an Indian's chest.

"One!" he said, and passed on.

"Come out!" Valentine said to the redskin.

The latter stood apart.

Curumilla pointed out in this way nine in succession, and then rejoined his comrades.

"Is that all?" Valentine asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Disarm those men, and bind them firmly," the count commanded.

His orders being obeyed, Don Louis then walked up to the Apaches.

"My brothers may take their arms and mount their horses again," he said. "They are valiant warriors. The palefaces have appreciated their courage, and esteem them. My brothers will return to their villages, and tell the old men and sages of their nation that the palefaces who have conquered them are not cruel men, like the ferocious Yoris, and that they desire to bury the hatchet so deeply between themselves and the Apaches, that it may never be found again for ten thousand years."

An Indian advanced from the group, and saluted majestically.

"Strong Heart is a terrible warrior: he is a jaguar during the combat, but he becomes an antelope after the victory. The words his breast breathes are inspired in him by the Great Spirit – the Wacondah loves him. My nation was deceived by the Yoris. Strong Heart is generous – he has pardoned. Henceforth there will be friendship between the Apaches and the warriors of Strong Heart."

The redskins, according to their custom, had, with that poesy which distinguishes them, given Don Louis the name of Strong Heart.

After this address on the part of the Indian, who was a celebrated chief, and known as the White Buffalo, there was an interchange of good offices between the adventurers and Apaches. Their horses and arms were returned to them, and the ranks were opened to let them pass. When they had disappeared in the forest, El Buitre ordered his men to wheel, and retired in his turn. Don Louis for a moment had the idea of recalling this auxiliary, who had been so useful to him during the action; but Valentine opposed it.

"Let those men go, brother," he said to him. "You must not have any public relations with them."

Don Louis did not insist.

"Now," Valentine went on, "let us finish what we have so well begun."

"That is right," the count answered.

The order was at once given to bury the dead and attend to the wounded. The Frenchmen had suffered a serious loss: they had ten men killed and twenty odd wounded. It is true that the majority of these wounds were not mortal; still the victory cost dearly: it was a warning for the future.

Two hours later the company, assembled by the bugle call, ranged themselves silently in the mission square, in the centre of which Don Louis, Valentine, and three officers were gravely seated at a table, on which lay sundry papers. Don Cornelio was writing at a smaller table. The count had summoned his comrades, and appointed a court martial, of which he was president, in order to try the prisoners captured during the fight. Don Louis rose amidst a solemn silence.

"Bring forward the prisoners," he said.

The men previously pointed out by Curumilla appeared, led by a detachment of adventurers, and were freed from their bonds. Although they still wore the costume of Apache warriors, they had been compelled to wash themselves, and remove the paint that disguised them. These men appeared not so much to repent of their detected roguery, but merely ashamed of being made a public spectacle.

"Bring in the last prisoner," Don Louis commanded.

At this order the adventurers looked round in surprise, not understanding what the count meant, for the nine Mexicans were all present. But at the expiration of a moment their surprise was changed into anger, and a dull murmur ran along their ranks like an electric current.

Colonel Florés had made his appearance. He was unarmed, and his head bare; but his face, stamped with boldness and defiance, had a gloomily malicious expression, which gave him a most unpleasant appearance. Curumilla accompanied him. The count made a sign, and silence was re-established.

"What is the meaning of this?" the colonel asked in a haughty tone.

Don Louis did not allow him to continue.

"Silence!" he said in a firm voice, turning a flashing glance upon him.

Subdued, in spite of himself, by the count's accent, the colonel blushed and remained silent. Don Louis continued: —

"Brothers and comrades," he said, "unfortunately for us, circumstances have placed us in an exceptional situation. On all sides treachery surrounds us. By falsehood after falsehood, trick upon trick, they have led us onto this desert, where we are abandoned to ourselves, far from all help, and having our courage alone to count upon to save us. Yesterday Don Sebastian Guerrero, believing himself at length sure of the success of his infamous plans, which he has so long been forming against us, decided on raising the mask. He declared us outlaws, and branded us with the disgraceful epithet of pirates. Scarce two hours after his departure we were attacked by Indians. Our enemies' measures were well calculated, and were within an ace of success. But God was on the watch, and saved us this time again. Now, do you know the man who made himself the generals right arm, and carried into effect the odious treachery of which we were so nearly the victims?

"This man," he said, pointing with his finger with an expression of crushing contempt, "is the villain who, since our departure from Guaymas, has attached himself to us, and never left us. He pretended to love and defend us, that he might surprise our secrets, and sell them to our enemies. It is the wretch whom we treated as a brother – to whom we offered the most delicate and enduring attention. It is the man, lastly, who assumes the title of colonel, and name of Francisco Florés, and who lied in doing so; for he is a nameless half-breed, surnamed El Garrucholo, ex-lieutenant of El Buitre, that ferocious brigand who commands a cuadrilla of salteadores that has desolated Upper Mexico for several years. Look at him! Now that he is detected, he trembles – villain that he is; for he knows that the supreme hour of justice has rung for him."

In fact, at this terrible revelation, thus made in the presence of all, the bandit's boldness suddenly gave way, and an expression of hideous terror contracted his features.

"See," the count continued, "the men whom our enemies are not ashamed to employ against us; and yet they treat us as pirates! Well, we accept this brand, brothers; and these bandits who have fallen into our hands shall be judged according to the summary law of pirates."

The adventurers warmly applauded their chief's address. Besides, all recognised the truth and logic of his remarks. In the critical situation in which they found themselves they could forgive nothing: clemency would have been culpable weakness. They could only regain their position by boldness and energy, by terrifying their foes, and compelling them to treat with them. The count sat down again.

"Don Cornelio," he said, "read to the accused the charges brought against him."

The Spaniard rose, and began a long charge against the colonel, supported by numerous letters written by Don Francisco, or received by him from various persons, principally General Guerrero, which clearly and indubitably proved the colonel's guilt. Don Cornelio finished by describing the interview on the previous day between Don Francisco, El Buitre, and the Apache chief. The adventurers listened to this long enumeration of crimes and felonies in the most profound silence. When Don Cornelio had ended the count addressed the colonel.

"Do you recognise the truth of the charge brought against you?"

The bandit raised his head: his mind was made up, and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Of what use to deny?" he said. "It is all true."

"Then you confess that you have betrayed us since the first moment we met?"

"Canarios!" he said, with a mocking smile, "you are mistaken, señor conde. I betrayed you even before I knew you."

At this cynical declaration no one present could repress a start of horror.

"Does what I say astonish you?" the bandit continued boldly. "Why so? I consider my conduct perfectly natural. What are you to us Mexicans but strangers? You are leeches, who come to our country to suck the brightest of our blood; that is to say, to gorge yourselves with our riches, deride our ignorance, turn into ridicule our manners and customs, and impose on us your tastes, and what you call your Western civilisation. By what right do you seize on all that is dear to us? You are only ferocious beasts, to destroy whom all measures are justifiable. If we are not the stronger in the sunshine, well, we have the night. Loyalty and frankness would ruin us, so we employ falsehood and treachery. What next? Who is wrong – who is right? Who will dare to be judge between us? No one. I have fallen into your hands: you are going to kill me. Very good. I shall be assassinated, but not condemned by you, for you have no authority by which to try me. What more do you want? Act as you think proper: it does not trouble me. He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind. I have sown trickery – I have reaped treason. It is but just. I am about to die. Well, you have no right to inflict on me this death which I have deserved. Your verdict will be a murder, I repeat."

After pronouncing these words he folded his arms on his chest, and boldly surveyed his auditors. In spite of themselves the adventurers felt moved by a species of admiration for the savage resolution of this man, with his feline and crafty manner, who had suddenly revealed himself in so different a light from that in which they had hitherto known him. In speaking with such brutal frankness the bandit had, as it were, raised himself in the eyes of all. His roguery appeared less vile; he inspired a sort of sympathy in these brave men, for whom courage and virtue are the first two virtues.

"Then you do not even try to defend yourself?" Don Louis said sorrowfully.

"Defend myself," he said in amazement, "for having acted as I thought it my duty to do, and as I should act again if you were such fools as to pardon me! Come, caballeros, that is not common sense. Besides, if I defended myself, I should to a certain extent recognise the competency of your tribunal, and I absolutely deny it; so, believe me, you had better finish with me – the sooner the better, both for you and me."

The count rose, took off his hat, and, addressing the adventurers, said in a solemn voice, —

"Friends and comrades, on your soul and conscience, is this man guilty?"

"Yes!" the adventurers answered in a hollow voice.

"What punishment has this man merited?" the count continued.

"Death!" the adventurers replied simultaneously.

The count then turned to the colonel.

"Don Francisco Florés, otherwise called El Garrucholo, you are condemned to the penalty of death."

"Thanks!" he said, with a graceful bow.

"But," the count continued, "as you are convicted of treason, and must suffer the death of traitors – that is, be shot in the back – taking into consideration the uniform you wear, which is that of the Mexican army, which we do not wish to disgrace in your person, you will be first degraded: the judgment will be executed immediately after."

The bandit shrugged his shoulders.

"What do I care?" he said.

At a sign from the count a non-commissioned officer stepped from the ranks, and the degradation commenced. El Garrucholo endured this frightful humiliation without turning pale: the bandit had in him completely gained the mastery over the caballero, and, as he said, he cared little about being degraded – that is to say, dishonoured – because honour to him was as nothing. When the subaltern had returned to the ranks the count again addressed the condemned man.

"You have five minutes to commend your soul to God," he said to him. "May He be merciful to you! You have nothing more to expect in this world from men."

The bandit burst into a hoarse laugh.

"You are all fools!" he shouted. "What have I in common with God, if really He exist? I had better recommend myself to the demon, into whose clutches I shall fall, if what the monks say is true."

At this frightful blasphemy the adventurers gave a start of terror; but El Garrucholo did not seem to notice it.

"I have," he continued, "only one favour more to ask of you."

"Speak!" the count replied, suppressing a gesture of disgust.

"I wear round my neck, hanging by a steel chain, a little velvet bag, containing a blessed relic, which my mother gave me, telling me it would bring me good fortune. Since my birth this scapulary has never left me. I desire it to be buried with me. Perhaps it will be of use to me down there where I am bound."

"What you desire shall be done," the count answered.

"Thanks!" he said with evident satisfaction.

Strange anomaly of the Mexican character! This people is credulous and superstitious, without faith and without belief – a childish people, too long enslaved, and too quickly liberated, which has not had the time either to forget or to learn.

"The picket!" the count commanded.

Eight men, commanded by a corporal, stepped from the ranks. The bandit knelt, with his back turned to the executioners.

"Present – fire!"

El Garrucholo fell, shot in the back, not uttering a sigh: he was stark dead. His body was covered with a zarapé.

"Now," the count said coldly, "for the rest."

The nine prisoners were brought up to the table: they were trembling, for the summary justice of the adventurers filled them with terror. A great noise was at this moment heard a short distance off, mingled with shouts and imprecations; and suddenly two females, mounted on magnificent horses, galloped into the middle of the square, when they stopped. They were Doña Angela and her waiting maid, Violanta.

Doña Angela's hair was dishevelled; her features were animated, probably by the speed at which she had come; and her eyes flashed flames. She remained for a moment motionless amid the crowd surprised at her sudden appearance. But, seeming suddenly to form a supreme resolution, she raised her head haughtily, and addressed the attentive adventurers, who were struck with admiration at so much boldness united to such beauty.

"Listen!" she said in a piercing voice. "I, Doña Angela, daughter of the Governor of Sonora, have come here to protest boldly, in the sight of all, against the treachery of which my father makes you the victims. Don Louis, chief of the French pirates, I love you! Will you accept me as your wife?"

A thunder of applause greeted these strange words, which were uttered with extraordinary animation. Don Louis slowly drew nearer the maiden, as if fascinated and attracted by her glance.

"Come," he said to her, "come, as you do not fear to ally yourself to misfortune."

The girl uttered a scream of joy that resembled a yell; and abandoning her reins, she bounded like a panther, and fell into the arms of the count, who pressed her frenziedly against his manly breast. Then, after a moment, still holding her in his embrace, he proudly raised his head, and looked commandingly around.

"This lady is the wife of the chief of the pirates, my brothers. Love her as a sister: she will be our palladium – our guardian angel."

The intoxication of the adventurers cannot be described: it was madness. This strange scene appeared to them a dream. The count then turned to the prisoners, who awaited their sentence in tremor.

"Begone!" he said to them. "Go and narrate what you have seen. Doña Angela pardons you."

The prisoners left the square, uttering benedictions innumerable. The poor fellows, after all that had passed in their presence, regarded themselves as dead men. Valentine drew near the maiden.

"You are an angel," he said to her in a low voice. "Will you persevere?"

"I am his to the tomb," she answered with a feverish energy.

CHAPTER VII

GUETZALLI

Were we writing a romance there are many details we would leave in the shade, many facts we should pass over in silence. Unfortunately we are only historians, and, as such, compelled to the most scrupulous exactitude.

In the first episode of this history we related how the Count de Lhorailles, at the head of 150 Frenchmen, selected from the colony of Guetzalli, which he had founded, let himself be led in pursuit of the Apache Indians into the great Del Norte desert; and how, after wandering about with his party in the midst of this ocean of shifting sand, and seeing his bravest comrades fall around him, he had blown out his brains, while, in a few hours after his death, the few Frenchmen who survived this great disaster succeeded in emerging from the desert and regaining the road to the colony.

The Frenchmen left at Guetzalli beheld the arrival of the relics of the expedition with stupor, and the news of the Count de Lhorailles' death completed their demoralisation. Abandoned without chiefs, so far from their country, in the midst of an enemy's territory, exposed at any moment to the attacks of the Apaches, they gave way to despair, and seriously revolved the question of leaving the colony and returning to the seacoast. The Count de Lhorailles, who founded the settlement, was, in fact, the soul of it. He dead, his companions felt in themselves neither the necessary energy nor strength to continue his work – a work which, indeed, they knew but imperfectly, for the count had no confidants among the men who had joined him. Jealous of his power, and naturally of a reserved temper, he had never confided to anyone his plans or his projects.

The Frenchmen who had followed him – for the most part greedy adventurers, devoured by that inextinguishable thirst for gold which had made them give up everything to go to America – had been cruelly deceived in their hopes, when, on disembarking in Mexico, that classic land of riches, the count, instead of leading them to gold or silver mines, which they would have worked and filled their pockets abundantly, took them to the Mexican frontier, and forced them to, till the soil.

Thus, when the first moment of stupor had passed, each colonist, acting under the impression of his own will, began his preparations for departure, in his heart well pleased at seeing an exile thus terminated which was beset by dangers, while offering none of the advantages of the situation. It was all over with the colony; but fortunately, wherever a number of Frenchmen are assembled, when the indispensable man disappears, another immediately arises, who, impelled by the circumstances, reveals himself suddenly to the great amazement of his comrades, and frequently of himself.

Among the colonists at Guetzalli was a young man scarce thirty years of age, but gifted with an ardent imagination and a far from common intellect. This young man, whose name was Charles de Laville, had left Europe, impelled rather by a certain restlessness of character and secret curiosity than by a desire to acquire the boasted riches of San Francisco. In that city, to which he proceeded with his brother, an older and more earnest man than himself, chance had made him acquainted with the Count de Lhorailles. The count exercised, perhaps unconsciously, an irresistible influence even over those who knew him superficially. When ho organised his expedition he had no difficulty in taking with him Charles de Laville, who followed him in spite of his brother's wise recommendations.

The count, who was a connoisseur in his fellow-men, appreciated at its full value the honourable and disinterested character of Charles de Laville. Thus he was the only one of all his companions with whom he at times spoke almost freely, and imparted to him some of his plans. He knew that the young man would never turn this confidence against him, but that, on the contrary, under all circumstances, he would aid him to the utmost of his power. When the count was on the point of starting on that disastrous expedition from which he was fated never to return – an expedition which de Laville obstinately opposed – it was to the latter gentleman that he intrusted the government and management of the colony during his absence, persuaded that in his hands the affairs of Guetzalli could not but prosper. De Laville accepted the confidential situation against his will. It was a heavy burden for him, so young and inexperienced, to maintain an active surveillance over men to whom any restraint, however slight, was insupportable, and who only obeyed with a secret murmur the will of the count, for whom they experienced a respect mingled with fear.

Still, against his expectations, and perhaps his hopes, Charles de Laville succeeded, in a very short time, not only in securing the unmurmuring obedience of his countrymen, but also in gaining their love. It was owing to this influence which he contrived to gain over the colonists that, when the remnants of the expedition arrived at Guetzalli, he succeeded in restoring some degree of order in the colony, arousing the courage of his comrades, and taking the proper defensive measures in the probable event of an Apache attack.

He gave the first outburst of grief time to calm; he waited the subsidence of the exaggerated anger of one party, and the equally exaggerated fears of another; and when he perceived that, excepting the profound discouragement that had seized on all, and made them desire a speedy retreat, their minds were beginning to regain their ordinary lucidity, he summoned the colonists to a general meeting. The latter eagerly obeyed, and assembled in the large courtyard in front of the main building. When de Laville was assured that all the colonists were assembled, and anxiously awaiting the communication he had to make to them, he claimed a few moments' attention and took the word.