The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

“Take the beast back, and shut him up in one of the cells. You may give him something to eat, but see to his being securely kept. Insignificant as he looks, there’s mischief in him, and he might take it into his head to stray. You comprehend, Gregorio?”

“I do, your worship. I’ll take care to stow him safe.”

Saying which, the mayor-domo of the establishment, for such Gregorio was, caught the hunchback by one of his ears – grand auricles they were – and led him away along the corridor, with the prison chain trailing behind.

Rivas did not stay till they were out of sight, but turning, stepped inside the room into which he had ushered the other two.

It was rather a large apartment, but plainly and sparsely furnished; a deal table and half a dozen common chairs, with leathern backs and bottoms, such as may be seen in most Mexican houses. It was better supplied with arms than household effects; several guns standing in corners, with swords hanging against the walls, and a variety of accoutrements – all giving it more the appearance of a guard-house than the reception-room of a gentleman’s mansion.

“Now amigos” said the Mexican, after rejoining his guests, on whose faces he could not fail to note an odd inquiring expression, “I can at last say to you, feel safe, if I can’t assure you of a supper good as I’d wish to give. Still, if I mistake not, ’twill be superior to our prison fare. Por Dios! Having to put up with that was punishment enough of itself, without being set to work in the sewers.”

“Ah,” remarked Kearney, speaking for himself and the Texan, “had you been one of us prisoners from Mier up to Mexico, the diet you complain of would have seemed luxury for Lucullus.”

“Indeed! What did they give you to eat?”

“Brown beans only half boiled, tortillas, usually cold; and sometimes, for a whole stretch of twenty-four hours, nothing at all.”

“Carramba!” exclaimed the Mexican. “That was hard usage. But nothing to surprise. Just as Santa Anna might be expected to treat his captive enemies, whether of his own people, or as yourselves, foreigners. More cruel tyrant never ruled country. But his reign, thank Heaven, will not be long. I’ve reason for saying that, and better still for thinking it.”

The little interlude of dialogue was brought to a close by the entrance of the mayor-domo loaded with bottles and glasses. He had orders to bring the wine first, the cigars along with it.

Lumping all down upon the table, he left them to wait upon themselves, while he went off to ransack the pantry soon to return with a sufficiency of viands, and savoury enough to satisfy men who had just come out of the Acordada. There was cold mutton, ham, and venison, maize bread, and “guesas de Guatemala,” with a variety of fruit to follow. Verily a supper at which even a gourmand might not cavil; though it was but the débris of a dinner, which seemed to have been partaken of by a goodly array of guests.

Not long lingered they over it, before whom it was set a second time. Overcome by the toil and struggle of days, and more the mental worry attendant, even the wine freely quaffed failed to excite them afresh. Rest and sleep they more needed and much desired; all glad when Gregorio again showed his face at the door, saying —

“Caballeros, your sleeping rooms are ready.”

Chapter Forty One

Anxious Hours

“See, Luisita! Yonder go soldiers!”

“Where?”

“Along the calzada of Nino Perdido – under the trees – by the thick clump – they’re galloping!”

“Santissima, yes! I see them now. O Ysabel! if they overtake the carriage! Ay Dios!”

“Ay Dios, indeed! It’s to be hoped they won’t, though. And I have less fear of it now than ever. It must have gone that way, or the soldiers wouldn’t be there; and as it couldn’t have stopped at the garita, it should now be a good distance on. Keep up your heart, amiga mia, as I do mine. They’ll soon be safe, if they’re not yet.”

This exclamatory dialogue was carried on while the alarm bells were still ringing, and the guns booming. The speakers were on the azotea of Don Ignacio’s house, up to which they had hastened soon as home – having dismissed their escort below, and left orders for no visitors to be admitted.

In the mirador, with opera-glasses to their eyes, they had been scanning the roads which led south and south-west from the city. Only for a few minutes, as they had but just got back, and as the carriage having already rounded the turning to Coyoacan, they saw but the pursuing soldiers. Those were the Hussars, with Santander at their head, though the ladies knew not that.

Fortified by the hopeful speech of the Condesa, the other responded to it with an added word of hope, and a prayer for the safe escape of those they were concerned about.

Then for a while both remained silent, with the lorgnettes to their eyes, following the movements of the soldiers along the road. Soon these were out of sight, but their whereabouts could be told by the cloud of white dust which rose over the trees, gradually drifting farther and farther off.

At length it too disappeared, settling down; and as the bells ceased to ring, and the cannon to be fired, the city, with all around it, seemed restored to its wonted tranquillity.

But not so the breasts of Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonté. Far from tranquil they; instead, filled with anxiety, keen as ever. And now, as much on their own account as for those they had been aiding to escape. In their haste to effect this, they had taken no thought of what was to come after. But it was now forced upon them. As they looked back on what they had themselves done – the part they had been playing, with all its details of action – apprehensions hitherto unfelt began to steal over them, growing stronger the longer they dwelt upon them.

But what would be the upshot of all?

What if the carriage got overtaken with the fugitives in it, and beside them those knives and pistols, to say nothing of the file? A gentleman’s cloak too, with mango and serape! Odd assortment of articles for ladies to take out on an airing! They had no fear of the cochero betraying them; but this paraphernalia surely would, if it fell into the hands of the pursuers. They might expect investigation, anyhow; but these things, if produced, would bring about an exposure unavoidable.

No wonder at their soon becoming seriously alarmed, henceforth nervously agitated. And they had no one to take council with. Soon after their coming home, Don Ignacio, seeing and hearing of what happened, had sallied forth to make inquiries, and direct pursuit. Furious about his fine carriage and horses carried off, he little dreamt that along with them were his duelling pistols and blue broadcloth cloak.

Nor would it do to tell him of those matters, unless they made up their minds to confess all, and fling themselves on his affection more than his mercy. Of course he was still in the dark about their doings – unsuspicious man – had not even been told who the forzados were that had taken away his equipage.

Closeted alone, for some time the alarmed ladies could not think of what they ought to do. They did not yield to despair, however; instead, kept on scheming and considering how they might meet the worst – if the worst came.

But one way seemed plausible – even possible – that depending on Don Ignacio. If they could prevail on him to tell a falsehood, all might be well. Only to say the carriage had been made ready for a journey to his casa de campo, whither he had intended to proceed that same evening, taking his daughter and the Condesa along with him. That would explain the presence of the weapons; no uncommon thing – rather the rule – for carriage travellers to take such with them, even going but outside the suburbs of the city. For good reason, there being footpads and robbers everywhere. And the cloaks for protection against the night air!

In this way they groped about, as drowning people clutch at sticks and straws, still without being able to get rid of their apprehensions. Even should Don Ignacio agree to the deception they thought of – he would, no doubt, when made aware of their danger – it was questionable whether it would serve them. For there was a file too – a small matter, but a most conspicuous link in the chain of circumstantial evidence against them. They in the carriage would have been using it, before being taken – if they should be taken. Finally, the worst of all, the relations known to exist between themselves and two of the men attempting escape.

A miserable time it was for them during the remainder of that afternoon and evening; a struggle amid doubts, fears, and conjectures. Nor did Don Ignacio’s return home in any way relieve them. They were not yet prepared to surrender up their secret even to him. The time had not come for that. As the hours passed, things began to look better, and the suspense easier to bear. No report from the pursuers, which there would or should have been, were the pursued taken.

Something better still, at length. José back home with the carriage and horses, and nothing besides – no weapons nor spare wraps! All gone off, the tell-tale file along with them.

Pepita brought this intelligence in to the ladies, who longed to have a private interview with the cochero. But he had first to deliver his to Don Ignacio, who had sallied out into the stables to receive it.

A strange tale it was, imparted to an angry listener, who, while listening, looked upon his costly harness, patched and mended with ropes, where it had been cut. His fine frisones too, abused, possibly injured for good, the ear of one of them well-nigh severed from the head! Slow to wrath though he was, this was enough to make him wrathful, without the further knowledge of his other losses, about which José took care not to enlighten him.

At a later hour the circumspect cochero told his tale to other ears in terms somewhat different, and with incidents. His master, summoned to the Palace, gave the opportunity so much desired by his young mistress and the Condesa for speaking with him; and he was soon in their presence, getting interrogated with a volubility which made sober reply almost impossible.

His questioners, however, after a time calming down, listened to his narration in a detailed form, though not without repeated interruptions. He told them about the slow driving of the carriage along the garden wall of San Francisco, the putting on the disguises, and how cleverly they had outwitted the guard at the garita.

“Like Ruperto!” at this juncture exclaimed the Countess.

Then, of their onward course along the calzada, horses in a gallop, till stopped on the Coyoacan road, with the action taken there – quick as it was varied and strange.

Donna Luisa, in her turn, here interrupted in triumphant exclamation —

“Like Florencio!”

In fine, when made known to them how the fugitives had mounted and ridden off, both cried out together, in terms almost the same —

“Thanks to the Virgin, blessed Mother of God! We now know they are safe.”

Their confidence was strengthened by further questioning, for the trusted cochero was able to tell them more. How his horses had been caught, and brought back to him by two Hussars, one of whom he chanced to have a speaking acquaintance with. From the soldier he had learnt all about the pursuit, after it had passed beyond him; how they had searched the chapparal, but fruitlessly; the latest reports being that the éscapados had got into the Pedregal.

That was enough for the Countess, who, springing to her feet and clapping her hands, cried out —

“Joy, Luisita! They’re safe, I’m sure. Ruperto knows the Pedregal, every path through it, as well as we the walks of the Alameda. I shall sleep this night better than the last, and you may do the same.”

So assured, Luisa Valverde, devout as was her wont, responded with a phrase of thanksgiving, arms crossed over her bosom, eyes turned to the picture of Santa Guadalupe on the wall.

José stood waiting, not for any reward. Recompense for the service he had done them – so modestly declaring it – was not in his thoughts at that moment, though it might be after. But the Condesa was thinking of it then. Sure to promise and contract, she said to him —

“Faithful fellow – courageous as faithful – take this; you’ve fairly earned it.”

Whilst speaking, she drew the jewelled watch from her waist, and, passing the chain over her head, held it out to him.

“And this too!” added the Donna Luisa, plucking a diamond ring from one of her fingers, and presenting it at the same time.

“No!” protested the faithful servitor. “Neither the one nor the other. Enough reward to me to know I’ve done your ladyship a service – if I have.”

“But, good José,” urged the Countess, “you must either take my watch or the worth of it in gold doblones! That was the understanding, and I shall insist on your adhering to it.”

“Muy bein, Condesa; I consent to that. But only on the condition that the gentlemen get safe off. Till we’re sure of that, I beg your ladyship won’t look upon me as a creditor.”

“If her ladyship should,” here put in a third personage of the sex feminine, who had just entered upon the scene, “if she should, I’ll pay the debt myself. I pay it now – there!”

It was Pepita who thus delivered herself, as she did so bounding forward, flinging her arms around his neck, and giving him a sonorous kiss upon the cheek! Then, as she released her lips after the smack, adding —

“I’ve given you that, hombre, for what? Why nothing more than doing your duty. Ha, ha, ha!”

The laughter neither disconcerted nor vexed him. It was not scornful, while the kiss had been very sweet. Long-coveted, but hitherto withheld, he looked upon it as an earnest of many others to follow, with a reward he would more value than all the watches and rings in Mexico – the possession of Pepita herself.

Chapter Forty Two

A Holy Brotherhood

“Where the deuce am I?”

It was Florence Kearney who asked this question, interrogating himself; time, the morning after their retreat up the mountain. He was lying on a low pallet, or rather bench of mason work, with a palm mat spread over it, his only coverlet the cloak he had brought with him from Don Ignacio’s carriage. The room was of smallest dimensions, some eight or nine feet square, pierced by a single window, a mere pigeon-hole without sash or glass.

He was yet only half awake, and, as his words show, with but a confused sense of his whereabouts. His brain was in a whirl from the excitement through which he had been passing, so long sustained. Everything around seemed weird and dream-like.

Rubbing his eyes to make sure it was a reality, and raising his head from the hard pillow, he took stock of what the room contained. An easy task that. Only a ricketty chair, on which lay a pair of duelling pistols – one of the pairs found under the carriage cushions – and his hat hanging on its elbow. Not a thing more except a bottle, greasy around the neck, from a tallow candle that had guttered and burnt out, standing on the uncarpeted stone floor beside his own boots, just as he had drawn them off.

Why he had not noticed these surroundings on the night before was due to extreme fatigue and want of sleep. Possibly, the Burgundy, mixed with the Madeira and Old Pedro Ximenes, had something to do with it. In any case he had dropped down upon the mat of palm, and became oblivious, almost on the moment of his entering this strange sleeping chamber, to which the mayor-domo had conducted him.

“Queer crib it is,” he continued to soliloquise, after making survey of the room and its containings, “for a bedroom. I don’t remember ever having slept in so small a one, except aboard ship, or in a prison-cell. How like the last it looks!”

It did somewhat, though not altogether. There were points of difference, as a niche in the wall, with a plaster cast on a plinth, apparently the image of some saint, with carvings in the woodwork, crosses, and other emblems of piety.

“It must be an old convent or monastery,” he thought, after noticing these. “Here in Mexico they often have them in odd, out-of-the-way places, I’ve heard. Out of the way this place surely is, considering the climb we’ve had to reach it. Monks in it, too?” he added, recalling the two men he had seen on the preceding night, and how they where habited. “A strange sort they seem, with a captain at their head – my prison companion! Well, if it give us sanctuary, as he appears to think it will, I shall be but too glad to join the holy brotherhood.”

He lay a little longer, his eyes running around the room, to note that the rough lime-wash on its walls had not been renewed for years; green moss had grown upon them, and there were seams at the corners, stains showing were rainwater had run down. If a monastery, it was evidently not one in the enjoyment of present prosperity, whatever it might have been in the past.

While still dreamily conjecturing about it, the door of his room was gently pushed ajar, and so held by whoever had opened it. Turning his head round, Kearney saw a man in long loose robes, with sandalled feet and shaven crown, girdle of beads, crucifix, cowl, and scapular – in short, the garb of the monk with all its insignia.

“I have come to inquire how you have slept, my son,” said the holy man, on seeing that he was awake. “I hope that the pure atmosphere of this, our mountain home – so different from that you’ve been so lately breathing – will have proved conducive to your slumbers.”

“Indeed, yes,” rejoined he inquired after, conscious of having slept well. “I’ve had a good night’s rest – the best allowed me for a long time. But where – ”

While speaking, he had dropped his feet to the floor, and raised himself erect on the side of the bed, thus bringing him face to face with the friar. What caused him to leave the interrogatory unfinished was a recognition. The countenance he saw was a familiar one, as might be expected after having been so close to his own – within a few feet of it – for days past. No disguise of dress, nor changed tonsure, could hinder identification of the man who had partaken of his chain in the Acordada; for he it was.

“Oh! ’tis you, Don Ruperto!” exclaimed Kearney, suddenly changing tone.

“The same, my son,” rejoined the other, with an air of mock gravity.

At which the young Irishman broke out into a loud guffaw, saying: —

“Well, you’re the last man I should ever have supposed to be a monk!”

He recalled some strong denunciations of the Holy Brethren he had heard pass the lips of his late fellow-prisoner.

“Ah! Señor Don Florencio, in this our world of Mexico we are called upon to play many parts, and make out home in many places. Yesterday, you knew me as a prisoner, like yourself in a loathsome gaol; to-day, you see me in a monastery. And no common monk, but an Abbot, for know, amijo mio, that I am the head of this establishment. But come! As your host I am not now playing the part I should. You must be half famished; besides, your toilet needs attending to. For the first, breakfast will be ready by the time you have looked to the last. Here, Gregorio!” this was a call to the mayor-domo outside, who instantly after appeared at the door. “Conduct this gentleman to the lavatory, and assist him in making his ablutions.” Then again to Kearney: “If I mistake not, you will find a clean shirt there, with some other changes of raiment. And may I ask you to be expeditious? It has got to be rather a late hour for breakfast, and the Holy Brethren will be getting a little impatient for it. But, no doubt, your appetite will prompt you. Hasta Luega!”

With which salutation – the Mexican custom at parting for only a short while – he passed out of the room, leaving his guest to be looked after by Gregorio.

Surrendering himself to the mayor-domo, Kearney was conducted to an outer room, in which he found a washstand and dressing-table, with towel and other toilet articles – all, however, of the commonest kind. Even so, they were luxuries that had been long denied him – especially the water, a constant stream of which ran into a stone basin from some pure mountain spring.

And, sure enough, the clean shirt was there, with a full suit of clothes; velveteen jacket, calzoneras calzoncillas, scarf of China crape – in short, the complete costume of a ranchero. A man of medium size, they fitted him nicely; and arrayed in them he made a very handsome appearance.

“Now, your honour,” said the individual in charge of him, “allow me to show you the Refectory.”

Another turn along the main passage brought them to the door, from which issued a buzz of voices. His host had prepared him to expect company, and on stepping inside this door he saw it in the shape of some twenty-five or thirty men, all in the garb of monks of the same order as Rivas himself.

The room was a large one, saloon shape, with a table standing centrally, around which were benches and chairs. A cloth was spread upon it, with a multifarious and somewhat heterogeneous array of ware – bottles and glasses being conspicuous; for it was after eleven o’clock, and the meal almuerzo, as much dinner as breakfast. The viands were being put upon it; three or four Indian youths, not in convent dress, passing them through a hatch that communicated with the kitchen, and from which also came a most appetising odour.

All this the young Irishman took in with a sweep of his eye, which instantly after became fixed upon the friars who had faced towards him. They were standing in two or three groups, the largest gathered round an individual who towered above all of them by the head and shoulders. Cris Rock it was, clean shaven, and looking quite respectable; indeed, better dressed than Kearney had seen him since he left off his New Orleans “store” clothes. The Colossus was evidently an object of great interest to his new acquaintances; and, from the farcical look upon their faces, it was clear they had been doing their best to “draw” him. With what success Kearney could not tell; though, from the knowledge he had of his old comrade’s cleverness, he suspected not much. There was just time for him to note the jovial air of the Brethren, so little in keeping with the supposed gravity of the monastic character, when the Abbot entering led him up to them, and gave him a general introduction.

“Hermanos!” he said, “let me present another of my comrades in misfortune, the Señor Don Florencio Kearney – an Irlandes– who claims the hospitality of the convent.”

They all made bow, some pressing forward, and extending hands.

But there was no time for dallying over salutations. By this several dishes had been passed through the hatch, and were steaming upon the table. So the Abbot took seat at its head, Kearney beside him; while the Texan was bestowed at its foot, alongside one who seemed to act as vice-chairman.

If the table-cloth was not one of the finest damask, nor the ware costliest china and cut glass, the repast was worthy of such. In all the world there is no cuisine superior to that of Mexico. By reason of certain aboriginal viands, which figured on the table of that Aztec sybarite, Montezuma, it beats the cuisine of old Spain, on which that of France is founded, and but an insipid imitation.

The monks of this mountain retreat evidently knew how to live, course after course being passed through the hatch in a variety which seemed as if it would never end. There were pucheros, guisados, tomales, and half a score of other dishes Kearney had never before heard of, much less tasted. No wonder at their dinner of the preceding day having left such débris for supper.

And the wines were in correspondence – in quality, profusion, everything. To Kearney it recalled “Bolton Abbey in the olden time.” Nor ever could the monks of that ancient establishment on the Wharfe have drunk better wines, or laughed louder while quaffing them, than they whose hospitality he was receiving on the side of the Cerro Ajusco.

Some strange speech, however, he heard passing around him, little in consonance with what might be supposed to proceed from the lips of religious men. But, possibly, just such as came from those of the Tintern and Bolton Brethren when around the refectory table. Not all of it, though. If the talk was worldly, it savoured little of wickedness – far less than that of the cowled fraternity of olden times, if chronicles are to be trusted. And never in convent hall could have been heard such toast as that with which the breakfast was brought to a close, when Rivas, rising to his feet, goblet in hand, the others standing up along with him, cried out —