The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.

“Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in – ?”

“Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours – better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre! – I die – I die! Mother of God protect —Lola! – Lolita! quer-i-da herm…”

The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with my ear close to the lips of the speaker.

His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.

I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his enemy. He appeared to be dead.

Story 1, Chapter IV

An Angel Voice

For some seconds I hung over what I supposed to be an inanimate form; it was that of a mere youth, and fair to behold, as was also the face, which was conspicuously upturned to the light of the moon. Notwithstanding its deathly pallor, it exhibited a fine type of manly beauty. The features were regular, the complexion brown, the cheek soft and smooth, the upper lip darkly bedecked with the young growth of virility, the eye rotund and of noble expression, the forehead framed in a garland of glossy black hair, whose luxuriant curls drooped down upon each side of the full rounded throat – all these I saw at a single glance. I saw also a faultless figure, habited in the costume of a peasant rather than of a soldier, but a peasant of a peculiar people, the Jarochos. In the words lately proceeding from the lips of the unfortunate youth, I had recognised the patois of this people, and was not surprised at seeing a richly-embroidered shirt of the finest linen, neatly fitting over the young man’s breast, a sash of China crape around the waist, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of bell-buttons, and boots with spurs attached, apparently of silver.

Striking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet, and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head, both lying near, denoted their ci-devant wearer to be a denizen of the coast lands – in short, a “Jarocho.”

These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I really believed to have caused the Jarocho’s death.

To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.

Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.

Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?

I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho’s body, not a scratch to account for them!

Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?

While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté– half sword, half hunting-knife – to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero.

Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the hand of his enemy?

I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared on its polished surface!

Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt something wet. Was it dew from the grass?

No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!

As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.

While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as different from either of those lately listened to as music from the rudest noise.

“Calros! dear Calros!” called the voice, “was it you I heard? Speak, Calros! valga me Dios! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No – no – I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near. It is I who call – I, your own Lola!”

Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a stranger impulse.

For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not there!

What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores – the loving Dolores – how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho – graceful even in the attitude of death – I could not wonder at the earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her “querido Calros.”

Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.

“Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola – your own Lola!”

“Lola!” I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, “this way; come this way! Calros is here.”

An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the “Mother of God,” was heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade, stepped cut into the opening.

Story 1, Chapter V

An Unpleasant Misunderstanding

Yes, fair as the mother of men – it is no exaggeration to say it – was she who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a full moon – a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood before me.

It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it – peculiar even to a single province – the tierra caliente, or coast-region, of Vera Cruz.

The image of Lola is still upon the tablets of my memory, permanently impressed as I saw her at that moment; perhaps more deeply graven upon my heart as I beheld her afterwards.

The picture presented to my eye, and viewed under the moon’s mellow light, was that of a girl just approaching the completeness of womanhood – or rather having completed it, for there seemed nothing wanting to make the perfect woman.

A figure of medium height, neither sylphlike nor slender, but of full physical outline, in points even imposing.

I do not deny that there is something sensual in this type, and I know there are those who incline more to the intellectual. For my part, I doubt the honesty of such ethereal admirers; and must still cling to the belief that bold elliptical outline is the true ideal of beauty in the feminine form.

That of Lola, seen against the verdant background of the chapparal, exhibited this curve in all its luxuriant windings. It was displayed in the tournure of the head, the cheeks, the throat, and shoulders; it embraced bosom, waist, and limbs; it ran over her whole figure – a living, moving curve, like the undulations of some beautiful serpent, always tapering to an end, but never terminating.

It was the curve discovered by Hogarth, though but poorly expressed in his pictures. It was perfectly presented in the outlines of the lovely apparition that came before my eyes in that moonlit glade, on the field of Cerro Gordo.

Her dress did not destroy the voluptuous line. It could not, even had it been one of those monstrous contrivances of fashion for concealing the too-often distorted form. But it was not thus designed. The sleeveless chemise of snow-white cambric, and the translucent skirt of thin muslin, like the gown of Nora Creina, left —

“Every beauty free

To sink or swell as heaven pleases.”

The slight scarf of bluish grey cotton (rebozo) drawn over the crown of the head, and falling loosely down in front, scarcely interfered with the symmetrical outlines of the bosom; while behind, two thick plaits of hair, escaping from under it, hung down to the level of its fringed ends, terminating in a tie of bright red ribbons.

At first sight, I thought the girl was barefoot. The skirt and petticoat (enagua) permitted to be seen beneath them a pair of statuesque ankles, nude to mid-knee. But although thus stockingless, I soon perceived that her feet were in satin slippers, hidden behind the herbage. Neither the naked ankles, nor the slight but costly chaussure, gave me any surprise, however inappropriate either might be deemed to a walk through the thorny chapparal. I knew that both were in the fashion of the country.

At the moment, I was not thinking of either circumstance, nor of the incongruity of bare feet in satin slippers. My eyes and thoughts were turned higher, gazing on a face of peculiar loveliness.

It was a beauty I remember well, but can ill describe.

To say that the complexion was a golden brown, with crimson in the cheeks; that the lips were like a pair of rose-leaves convexly curving against each other, and when parted, displaying a row of pearly teeth; that both eyebrows and lashes were crescent-shaped and black as ebony; that the eyes were of the same hue, but sparkling with liquid light; that the nose was slightly aquiline; the throat full and boldly rounded upward – to say all this, would only be to state a series of physical facts, which can give no idea of the loveliness of that face. It was the combination of these features – their mutual adaptation, their play, that produced the charm which I have called peculiar.

And it was so. Even with a heart at that time not wholly free, it enchained me – and I stood admiring. The face was near, and the moon full enough upon it to enable me to view it with distinctness. I could trace every feature, every shade of expression, even to the quick changing of the colour upon her cheek.

I stood in silence gazing on this apparition so unexpected, so lovely. Surprise, along with admiration, restrained my speech.

For a time the girl was equally silent, though her silence had a different cause. Her eyes were fixed, not upon me but upon the form at my feet. She had only glanced at me, and then quickly transferred her gaze to the prostrate figure.

It was a look of eager inquiry, lasting not long. In a second it changed to one of recognition, and the instant afterwards her eyes filled with an expression of intense agony. She saw Calros – her beloved Calros – prostrate, his face besprinkled with blood. It was Calros, silent, but not asleep; speechless and motionless; perhaps dead?

“Dead! Mother of God, dead!” were the words that, in accents of anguish, came pealing from the lips of Lola.

Her eyes flashed upward. In an instant the expression changed – grief giving place to indignation – something still more dire.

I saw that I was myself its object. With astonishment did I perceive this. It had not occurred to me to reflect on my compromising position. I was still standing over the body of the Jarocho, blood-besprinkled as it was. Less than five minutes before, Calros’s voice had been heard, along with that of another man, mingling in excited dialogue.

A shot had been fired. I held a pistol in my hand, from the muzzle of which a slight film of sulphureous smoke could be seen stringing outward. Calros appeared to be dead. Who but I could have been his slayer?

I heard the word asesino ringing in my ears, with other epithets of like fearful signification, as the girl rushed up to the spot where I stood. There was no weapon in her hand, or I might have fancied she was about to strike me. Even with her clenched fist, I was for a while uncertain whether this was not her intention; and to avoid her, I stepped back.

She stood for some seconds looking me straight in the face. Behind the parting of her tightly compressed lips was displayed a double row of teeth, that, despite their pearly whiteness, gleamed fiercely in the moonlight; while her eyes, as they flashed, seemed to send forth jets of living fire!

“I am innocent!” I called out. “It is not my act; it was not I who – ”

“Asesino! monstre! Whoever thou art; false fiend, to deny a deed of which —madré de Dios! – I have been almost a witness. There – there – the weapon still in your hands – his blood freshly spilt!”

“It is not his blood,” I replied, hastily interrupting her.

But she heard not the rejoinder! for suddenly turning from me, she flung herself upon the prostrate form, drowning my voice with her wild exclamations.

“Dead! Calros! dear Calros! Are you dead? Speak to me one word – a whisper, to say you still live! Ay de mi! it is too true. No answer – no breath! Where is the wound that has robbed you of life, and me of my only friend? Where? – where?”

And as she continued to give voice to these detached exclamations, she proceeded, as if mechanically, to examine the wounds of the unconscious Jarocho.

Story 1, Chapter VI

A Devoted Woman

I felt the awkwardness of the situation. Appearances were against me. Some explanation must be given.

Stepping nearer, I bent down by the side of the young girl; and as soon as her silence gave me an opportunity of being heard, repeated my asseveration.

“It is not his blood,” I said, “but that of another. Your friend has received no wound – at least none lately given, and least of all by me. His death – if he be dead – has been caused by this.”

I pointed to the dark spot on his thigh.

“It is a bullet wound received in the battle.”

“The blood upon his bosom – his cheeks – you see – ’tis fresh?”

“I repeat it is not his. I speak truly.”

My earnest utterance seemed to make an impression upon her.

“Whose then? whose blood?” she cried out.

“That of a man who was in the act of killing Calros, when my pistol frustrated his intent. I fear after all he may have been successful, though not exactly according to his design. He intended to have stabbed the wounded man with his macheté.”

I took the mongrel sword, and held it up to the light.

“There’s blood on its blade, as you see; but it is that of him who would have been the true assassin, had not my bullet disabled his arm. Have you ever seen this weapon before?”

“O ñor; I could not tell. ’Tis a macheté. They’re all alike.”

“Have you ever heard the name of Ramon Rayas?”

The answer was an exclamation – almost a shriek!

“You know him, then?”

“Ramon Rayas! oh, the fiend – he – it was he. He vowed to kill Calros. Calros! O Calros! Has he fulfilled his vow?”

Once more the girl bent over the body of the Jarocho; and leaning low, recklessly placed her lips in contact with his blood-stained cheek. At the same time her arms fondly flung around, seemed to enfold the corpse in a loving embrace. Had he been alive and conscious, with the certainty of recovering, I could have envied him that sweet entwining.

My impulse was of a holier nature. If I could not restore the dead, I might give comfort to the living. But was he dead? It was not till that moment I had doubted it.

As I stooped over the body, I heard a sound that resembled a sigh. It could not be the sobbing of the bereaved Lola – though this also was audible.

The girl had again raised her head, and was holding it a little to one side, while the sound that had attracted my attention seemed to proceed from a different direction – in fact from the lips of the man supposed to be dead.

I lowered my ear to his face, and listened for a repetition of the sound. It came in a moment as I had before heard it – a sort of sigh half suppressed, like the breath struggling from a bosom over-weighted.

“Lola,” I whispered, “your Calros is not dead. He still breathes.”

I needed not to communicate this intelligence. The ear of affection had been bent, keenly as my own. By the sudden brightening of her countenance, I could perceive that Lola had heard that same sound, and was listening to catch it again, as if her life depended on its repetition.

She had mechanically pushed me aside, so that her ear might be closer to the mute lips of Calros.

“One moment,” I said, gently raising her from her recumbent position; “perhaps he has only fainted I have a remedy here; a stimulant that may serve to restore him. Permit me to administer it.”

I drew forth the flask which providentially I had brought from the tent. It contained “Catalan brandy,” one of the most potent of spirits.

Silently but readily she glided out of the way, watching my movements like some affectionate sister who assists the physician by the couch of an invalid brother.

I felt the pulse of the wounded man. My medical skill was not extensive; but I could perceive that its beating, though feeble, was not irregular – not flickering, like a lamp that was destined soon to become extinguished.

Lola read hope in my looks: her own became brighter.

I pulled out the stopper. I applied the flask to the lips of the unconscious Calros, pouring into his mouth a portion of the Catalonian spirit.

The effect was almost instantaneous. His bosom began to heave, his breath issued forth more freely, his glazed eyes showed signs of reanimation.

The girl could scarcely be restrained from repeating her fond embraces.

Presently the eyes of the invalid seemed to see – almost to recognise. His lips moved, as though he was endeavouring to speak, but as yet there came forth no sound.

Once more I applied the flask, pouring into his throat nearly a wine-glassful of the Catalan.

In less than a score of seconds the dose produced its effect – made known by a movement throughout the frame of the Jarocho, and a muttered whisper proceeding from his lips.

Again the girl would have strangled him with her passionate caresses. Judging from the joy with which she witnessed his resuscitation, her affection for him must have been boundless.

“Keep away from him!” I said, adding to the verbal caution a slight exertion of physical force. “There is scarcely an ounce of blood in his body, that is why he has fainted; that and the shock caused by the threat of – ”

I did not choose to disquiet her by repeating what appeared to be a dreaded name. “Excitement of any kind may prove fatal. If you love him stay out of his sight; at least for a while, till he recover strength sufficient to bear your presence.”

How idle in me to have made use of these words, “if you love him!” The appearance of the handsome Jarocho, handsome even with death’s pallor on his brow, forbade any other belief; while the beautiful Jarocha, beautiful through all the changes of anger and hate, despair and hope, showed by her every action that Calros Vergara was the loved one of her life.

“Keep out of sight,” I again requested: “pray do not go near him till I return. The night air is unfavourable to his recovery. I must seek assistance, and have him carried into my tent. I entreat you, Señorita, do not make yourself known to him now, or the shock may be fatal.”

The look given by the girl, in answer to my solicitations, produced upon me an impression at once vivid and peculiar. It was a mingling of pleasure and pain, just in proportion as my fancy whispered me, that in those glances there was something more than gratitude.

Alas! it is true. Even in that melancholy hour, I felt pleasure in the thought that, whether he might recover or die, I should one day supplant Calros Vergara in the affections of his beloved Lola!

Story 1, Chapter VII

Despoiling the Dead

I aroused half-a-dozen of my men from their midnight slumbers. Among them was one who had some skill in surgery, derived from a long experience as hospital assistant.

There was a catre, or leathern bedstead, in the tent – a common article of camp furniture among the officers of the Mexican army. By splicing a pair of tent-poles along its sides, it could be converted into a “stretcher” of a superior kind.

The transformation was soon made; and, returning to the chapparal, we placed the wounded man upon the catre, with as much tenderness as if, instead of an enemy, he had been one of our own comrades.

He had by this time so far recovered as to be sensible of what was passing; but it was not until he had been carried within the tent, and his wound carefully dressed by the ex-hospital assistant, that I consented to an interview between him and his “querida Lola.”

Mistrusting the effect of any sudden excitement – even though caused by joy – I had entreated the girl to remain out of sight; and though suffering from a painful impatience to speak to her beloved Calros, she had obeyed me.

Being assured by the improvised surgeon that there was no real danger; that the wound was not likely to prove fatal; and that the syncope of the wounded man had been caused by weakness from loss of blood, I withdrew the restriction.

In an instant after, the beautiful Lola flew into the arms of her lover.

It was an affecting scene, and touched even my rude companions, who stood around the catre. To me it was not pleasant – I might almost say it was painful – to listen to that interchange of endearing epithets. I coveted the caresses that were being lavished upon the handsome Jarocho.

Soon the soldiers withdrew, to resume their interrupted repose, the hospital assistant going with the rest. I was left in the tent with Calros and Lola.

I could not help envying the invalid. For the sake of being tended by such a nurse, I would willingly have changed situations with him!

Lola had heard the assurance given by the hospital assistant, and communicated it to the wounded man. There was no longer the dread of death to hinder them from indulging in a free interchange of thought.

Perhaps they had something to say to each other which should not be overheard by any one? Under the idea that my presence might be a restraint, I withdrew; I shall not say without reluctance.

Throwing my cloak over my shoulders, I walked out of the tent, leaving them alone.

The night was still; the silence more solemn than ever. Not a sound disturbed it. Even the moanings of the disabled men, who lay here and there over the field of battle, which at an earlier hour had been well nigh continuous, seemed now to have ceased.

I was astonished by this circumstance, and mentally endeavoured to account for it. Perhaps the report of my pistol had awed them into silence, under the belief that the “strippers” were abroad, and that it was better to endure their agonies in silence than to guide those vultures in their villainous search! This was the only explanation I could think of.

I strolled off into the chapparal; but I soon found my way back into the neighbourhood of the tent. Under that piece of spread canvas, rendered luminous by the lamp burning inside, there was an attraction that drew me nearer and nearer. It was irresistible; and involuntarily yielding to it, I at length found myself in front of the arcade-like entrance, gazing inward.

The flap was thrown back; and I could see the occupants inside, the invalid stretched upon the catre, lying on his back as we had left him, the girl bending over him, her eyes fixed steadily upon his face. I could see that he was asleep; but not the less affectionately were those beautiful eyes bent upon his slumbering features.

The tableau should have gratified; – it tortured me!