The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

Well, it would be a lesson of caution not to be too quick at falling in love. I had often listened to the allegement, that circumstances have much to do in producing the tender passion. This seemed to confirm it.

I was not without regret, on discovering that the angel of my imagination was no more than a pretty woman, – a regret strengthened by the remembrance of three distinct promenades made for the express purpose of seeing her – to say nothing of the innumerable vagaries of pleasant conjecture, all exerted in vain.

I felt a little vexed at having thrown away my sword-knot!

I was scarce consoled by the reflection, that my peace of mind was no longer in peril; for I was now almost indifferent to the opinion which the lady might entertain of me. I no longer cared a straw about the reciprocity of a passion the possibility of which had been troubling me. There would be none to reciprocate.

Thus chagrined, and a little by the same thought consoled, I had ceased to stare at the señorita; who certainly stared at me in surprise, and as I fancied, with some degree of indignation.

My rudeness had given her reason; and I could not help perceiving it.

I was about to make the best apology in my power, by hastening away from the spot – my eyes turned to the ground in a look of humiliation – when curiosity, more than aught else, prompted me to raise them once more to the window. I was desirous to know whether my repentance had been understood and acknowledged.

I intended it only for a transitory glance. It became fixed.

Fixed and fascinated! The woman that but six seconds before appeared only pretty – that three days before I had supposed supremely beautiful – was again the angel I had deemed her, – certainly the most beautiful woman I ever beheld!

What could have caused this change? Was it an illusion – some deception my senses were practising upon me?

If the lady saw reason to think me rude before, she had double cause now. I stood transfixed to the spot, gazing upon her with my eyes, my soul – my every thought concentrated in the glance.

And yet she seemed less frowning than before: for I was sure that she had frowned. I could not explain this, any more than I could account for the other transformation. Enough that I was gratified with the thought of having, not idly, bestowed my sword-knot.

For some time I remained under the spell of a speechless surprise.

It was broken – not by words, but by a new tableau suddenly presented to my view. Two women were at the window! One was the pretty prude who had well nigh chased me out of the street; the other, the lovely being who had attracted me into it!

At a glance I saw that they were sisters.

They were remarkably alike, both in form and features. Even the expression upon their countenances was similar – that similarity that may be seen between two individuals in the same family, known as a “family likeness.”

Both were of a clear olive complexion – the tint of the Moriseo-Spaniard – with large imperious eyes, and masses of black hair clustering around their necks. Both were tall, of full form, and shaped as if from the same mould; while in age – so far as appearance went – they might have been twins.

And yet, despite these many points of personal similarity, in the degree of loveliness they were vastly different. She who had been offended by my behaviour was a handsome woman, and only that – a thing of Earth; while her sister had the seeming of some divine creature whose home might be in Heaven!

Chapter Five.

A Nocturnal Sortie

From that day, each return of twilight’s gentle hour saw me in the Calle del Obispo. The sun was not more certain to set behind the snow-crowned Cordilleras, than I to traverse the street where dwelt Mercedes Villa-Señor.

Her name and condition had been easily ascertained. Any stray passenger encountered in the street could tell, who lived in the grand casa with the frescoed front.

“Don Eusebio Villa-Señor —un rico– with two daughters, muchachas muy lindas!” was the reply of him, to whom I addressed the inquiry.

I was further informed, that Don Eusebio was of Spanish descent, though a Mexican by birth; that in the veins of his daughters flowed only the Andalusian blood – the pure sangre azul. His was one of the familias principales of Puebla.

There was nothing in this knowledge to check my incipient admiration of Don Eusebio’s daughter. Quite the contrary.

As I had predicted, I was soon in the vortex of an impetuous passion; and without ever having spoken to her who inspired it!

There was no chance to hold converse with her. We were permitted no correspondence with the familias principales, beyond the dry formalities which occasionally occurred in official intercourse. But this was confined to the men. The señoritas were closely kept within doors, and as jealously concealed from us as if every house had been a harem.

My admiration was too earnest to be restrained by such trifling obstructions; and I succeeded in obtaining an occasional, though distant, view of her who had so interested me.

My glances – given with all the fervour of a persistent passion – with all its audacity – could scarce be misconstrued.

I had the vanity to think they were not; and that they were returned with looks that meant more than kindness.

I was full of hope and joy. My love affair appeared to be progressing towards a favourable issue; when that change, already recorded, came over the inhabitants of Puebla – causing them to assume towards us the attitude of hostility.

It is scarce necessary to say that the new state of things was not to my individual liking. My twilight saunterings had, of necessity, to be discontinued; and upon rare occasions, when I found a chance of resuming them, I no longer saw aught of Mercedes Villa-Señor!

She, too, had no doubt been terrified into that hermitical retirement – among the señoritas now universal.

Before this terrible time came about, my passion had proceeded too far to be restrained by any ideas of danger. My hopes had grown in proportion; and stimulated by these, I lost no opportunity of stealing out of quarters, and seeking the Calle del Obispo.

I was alike indifferent to danger in the streets, and the standing order to keep out of them. For a stray glance at her to whom I had surrendered my sword-knot, I would have given up my commission; and to obtain the former, almost daily did I risk losing the latter!

It was all to no purpose. Mercedes was no more to be seen.

Uncertainty about her soon became a torture; I could endure it no longer. I resolved to seek some mode of communication.

How fortunate for lovers that their thoughts can be symbolised upon paper! I thought so as I indited a letter, and addressed it to the “Dona Mercedes Villa-Señor.”

How to get it conveyed to her, was a more difficult problem.

There were men servants who came and went through the great gateway of the mansion. Which of them was the one least likely to betray me?

I soon fixed my reflections upon the cochero– a tall fellow in velveteens, whom I had seen taking out the sleek carriage horses. There was enough of the “picaro” in his countenance, to inspire me with confidence that he could be suborned for my purpose.

I determined on making trial of him. If a doubloon should prove sufficient bribe, my letter would be delivered.

In my twilight strolls, often prolonged to a late hour, I had noticed that this domestic sallied forth: as if, having done his day’s duty, he had permission to spend his evenings at the pulqueria. The plan would be to waylay him, on one of his nocturnal sorties; and this was what I determined on doing.

On the night of that same day on which I indited the epistle, the Officer of the Guard chanced to be my particular friend. It was not chance either: since I had chosen the occasion. I had no difficulty, therefore, in giving the countersign; and, wrapped in a cloth cloak – intended less as a protection against the cold than to conceal my uniform – I proceeded onward upon my errand of intrigue.

I was favoured by the complexion of the night. It was dark as coal tar – the sky shrouded with a thick stratum of thunder clouds.

It was not yet late enough for the citizens to have forsaken the streets. There were hundreds of them, strolling to and fro, all natives of the place – most of them men of the lower classes – with a large proportion of “leperos.”

There was not a soldier to be seen – except here and there the solitary sentry, whose presence betokened the entrance to some military cuartel.

The troops were all inside – in obedience to the standing order. There were not even the usual squads of drunken stragglers in uniform. The fear of assault and assassination was stronger than the propensity for “raking” – even among regiments whose rank and file was almost entirely composed of the countrymen of Saint Patrick.

A stranger passing through the place could scarce have suspected that the city was under American occupation. There was but slight sign of such control. The Poblanos appeared to have the place to themselves.

They were gay and noisy – some half intoxicated with pulque, and inclined to be quarrelsome. The leperos, no longer in awe of their own national authorities, were demeaning themselves with a degree of licence allowed by the abnormal character of the times.

In my progress along the pavement I was several times accosted in a coarse bantering mariner; not on account of my American uniform – for my cloak concealed this – but because I wore a cloak! I was taken for a native “aristocrat.”

Better that it was so: since the insults were only verbal, and offered in a spirit of rude badinage. Had my real character been known, they might have been accompanied by personal violence.

I had not gone far before becoming aware of this; and that I had started upon a rash, not to say perilous, enterprise.

It was of that nature, however, that I could not give it up; even had I been threatened with ten times the danger.

I continued on, holding my cloak in such a fashion, that it might not flap open.

By good luck I had taken the precaution to cover my head with a Mexican sombrero, instead of the military cap; and as for the gold stripes on my trowsers, they were but the fashion of the Mexican majo.

A walk of twenty minutes brought me into the Calle del Obispo.

Compared with some of the streets, through which I had been passing, it seemed deserted. Only two or three solitary pedestrians could be seen traversing it, under the dim light of half a dozen oil lamps set at long distances apart.

One of these was in front of the Casa Villa-Señor. More than once it had been my beacon before, and it guided me now.

On the opposite side of the street there was another grand house with a portico. Under the shadow of this I took my stand, to await the coming forth of the cochero.

Chapter Six.

“Va Con Dios!”

Though I had already made myself acquainted with his usual hour of repairing to the pulqueria, I had not timed it neatly.

For twenty minutes I stood with the billetita in my hand, and the doubloon in my pocket, both ready to be entrusted to him. No cochero came forth.

The house rose three stories from the street – its massive mason work giving it a look of solemn grandeur. The great gaol-like gate – knobbed all over like the hide of an Indian rhinoceros – was shut and secured by strong locks and double bolting. There was no light in the sagnan behind it; and not a ray shone through the jalousies above.

Not remembering that in Mexican mansions there are many spacious apartments without street windows, I might have imagined that the Casa Villa-Señor was either uninhabited, or that the inmates had retired to rest. The latter was not likely: it wanted twenty minutes to ten.

What had become of my cochero? Half-past nine was the hour I had usually observed him strolling forth; and I had now been upon the spot since a quarter past eight. Something must be keeping him indoors – an extra scouring of his plated harness or grooming of his frisones?

This thought kept me patient, as I paced to and fro under the portico of Don Eusebio’s “opposite neighbour.”

Ten o’clock! The sonorous campaña of the Cathedral was striking the noted hour – erst celebrated in song. A score of clocks in church-steeples, that tower thickly over the City of the Angels, had taken up the cue; and the air of the night vibrated melodiously under the music of bell metal.

To kill time – and another bird with the same stone – I took out my repeater, with the intention of regulating it. I knew it was not the most correct of chronometers. The oil lamp on the opposite side enabled me to note the position of the hands upon the dial. Its dimness, however, caused delay; and I may have been engaged some minutes in the act.

After returning the watch to its fob, I once more glanced towards the entrance of Don Eusebio’s dwelling – at a wicket in the great gate, through which I expected the cochero to come.

The gate was still close shut; but, to my surprise, the man was standing outside of it! Either he, or some one else?

I had heard no noise – no shooting of bolts, nor creaking of hinges. Surely it could not be the cochero?

I soon perceived that it was not; nor anything that in the least degree resembled him.

My vis-à-vis on the opposite side of the street was, like myself, enveloped in a cloak, and wearing a black sombrero.

Despite the disguise, and the dim light afforded by the lard, there was no mistaking him for either domestic, tradesman, or lepero. His air and attitude – his well-knit figure, gracefully outlined underneath the loose folds of the broadcloth – above all, the lineaments of a handsome face – at once proclaimed the “cavallero.”

In appearance he was a man of about my own age: twenty-five, not more. Otherwise he may have had the advantage of me; for, as I gazed on his features – ill lit as they were by the feebly glimmering lamp – I fancied I had never looked on finer.

A pair of black moustaches curled away from the corners of a mouth, that exhibited twin rows of white regular teeth. They were set in a pleasing smile.

Why that pain shooting through my heart, as I beheld it?

I was disappointed that he was not the cochero for whom I had been keeping watch. But it was not this. Far different was the sentiment with which I regarded him. Instead of the “go-between” I had expected to employ, I felt a suspicion, that I was looking upon a rival!

A successful one, too, I could not doubt. His splendid appearance gave earnest of that.

He had not paused in front of the Casa Villa-Señor without a purpose – as was evident from the way in which he paced the banquette beneath, while glancing at the balcon above. I could see that his eyes were fixed on that very window – by my own oft passionately explored!

His look and bearing – both full of confidence – told that he had been there before – often before; and that he was now at the spot – not like myself on an errand of doubtful speculation, but by appointment!

I could tell, that he had not come to avail himself of the services of the cochero. His eyes did not turn towards the grand entrance-gate, but remained fixed upon the balcony above – where he evidently expected some one to make appearance.

Shadowed by the portal, I was not seen by him; though I cared not a straw about that. My remaining in concealment was a mere mechanical act – an instinct, if you prefer the phrase. From the first I felt satisfied, that my own “game was up,” and that I had no longer any business with the domestic of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. His daughter was already engaged!

Of course I thought only of Mercedes. It would have been absurd to suppose that the man I saw before me could be after the other. The idea did not enter my brain – reeling at the sight of my successful rival.

Unlike me, he was not kept long in suspense. Ten o’clock had evidently been the hour of appointment. The cathedral was to give the time; and, as the tolling commenced, the cloaked cavalier had entered the street, and hastened forward to the place.

As the last strokes were reverberating upon the still night air, I saw the blind silently drawn aside; while a face – too often outlined in my dreams – now, in dim but dread reality, appeared within the embayment of the window.

The instant after, and a form, robed in dark habiliments, stepped silently out into the balcony; a white arm was stretched over the balusters; something still whiter, appearing at the tips of tapering fingers, fell noiselessly into the street, accompanied by the softly whispered words:

“Querido Francisco; va con Dios!” (God be with you, dear Francis!)

Before the billet-doux could be picked up from the pavement, the fair whisperer disappeared within the window; the jalousie was once more drawn: and both house and street relapsed into sombre silence.

No one passing the mansion of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor could have told, that his daughter had been committing an indiscretion. That secret was in the keeping of two individuals; one to whom it had, no doubt, imparted supreme happiness; the other to whom it had certainly given a moment of misery!

Chapter Seven.

Brigandage in New Spain

Accustomed to live under a strong government, with its well-organised system of police, we in England have a difficulty in comprehending how a regular band of robbers can maintain itself in the midst of a civilised nation.

We know that we have gangs of burglars, and fraternities of thieves, whose sole profession is to plunder. The footpad is not quite extinct; and although he occasionally enacts the rôle of the highwayman, and demands “your money or your life,” neither in dress nor personal appearance is he to be distinguished from the ordinary tradesman, or labourer. More often is he like the latter.

Moreover, he does not bid open defiance to the law. He breaks it in a sneaking, surreptitious fashion; and if by chance he resists its execution, his resistance is inspired by the fear of capture and its consequences – the scaffold, or penitentiary.

This defiance rarely goes further than an attempt to escape from the policeman, with a bull’s-eye in one hand and a truncheon in the other.

The idea of a band of brigands showing fight, not only to a posse of sheriffs’ officers, but to a detachment, perhaps half a regiment, of soldiers – a band armed with swords, carbines, and pistols; costumed and equipped in a style characteristic of their calling – is one, to comprehend which we must fancy ourselves transported to the mountains of Italy, or the rugged ravines of the Spanish sierras. We even wonder at the existence of such a state of things there; and, until very lately, were loth to believe in it. Your London shopkeeper would not credit the stories of travellers being captured, and retained in captivity until ransomed by their friends – or if they had no friends, shot!

Surely the government of the country could rescue them? This was the query usually put by the incredulous.

There is now a clearer understanding of such things. The experience of an humble English artist has established the fact: that the whole power of Italy – backed by that of England – has been compelled to make terms with a robber-chief, and pay him the sum of four thousand pounds for the surrender of his painter-prisoner!

The shopkeeper, as he sits in the theatre pit, or gazes down from the second tier of boxes, will now take a stronger interest in “Fra Diavolo” than he ever did before. He knows that the devil’s brother is a reality, and Mazzaroni something more than a romantic conceit of the author’s imagination.

But there is a robber of still more picturesque style to which the Englishman cannot give his credibility – a bandit not only armed, costumed, and equipped like the Fra Diavolos and Mazzaronis, but who follows his profession on horseback!

And not alone– like the Turpins and Claude Duvals of our own past times – but trooped along with twenty, fifty, and often a hundred of his fellows!

For this equestrian freebooter – the true type of the highwayman – you must seek, in modern times, among the mountains, and upon the plains, of Mexico. There you will find him in full fanfar; plying his craft with as much earnestness, and industry, as if it were the most respectable of professions!

In the city and its suburbs, brigandage exists in the shape of the picaron-à-pied– or “robber on foot” – in short, the footpad. In the country it assumes a far more exalted standard – being there elevated to the rank of a regular calling; its practitioners not going in little groups, and afoot – after the fashion of our thieves and garotters – but acting in large organised bands, mounted on magnificent horses, with a discipline almost military!

These are the true “bandoleros,” sometimes styled salteadores del camino grande– “robbers of the great road” – in other words, highwaymen.

You may meet them on the camino grande leading from Vera Cruz to the capital – by either of the routes of Jalapa or Orizava; on that between the capital and the Pacific port of Acapulco; on the northern routes to Queretaro, Guanaxuato, and San Luis Potosi; on the western, to Guadalaxara and Michoacan; in short, everywhere that offers them the chance of stripping a traveller.

Not only may you meet them, but will, if you make but three successive excursions over any one of the above named highways. You will see the “salteador” on a horse much finer than that you are yourself riding; in a suit of clothes thrice the value of your own – sparkling with silver studs, and buttons of pearl or gold; his shoulders covered with a serapé, or perhaps a splendid manga of finest broadcloth – blue, purple, or scarlet.

You will see him, and feel him too – if you don’t fall upon your face at his stern summons “A tierra!” and afterwards deliver up to him every article of value you have been so imprudent as to transport upon your person.

Refuse the demand, and you will get the contents of carbine, escopeta, or blunderbuss in your body, or it may be a lance-blade intruded into your chest!

Yield graceful compliance, and he will as gracefully give you permission to continue your journey – with, perhaps, an apology for having interrupted it!

I know it is difficult to believe in such a state of things, in a country called civilised – difficult to you. To me they are but remembrances of many an actual experience.

Their existence is easily explained. You will have a clue to it, if you can imagine a land, where, for a period of over fifty years, peace has scarcely ever been known to continue for as many days; where all this time anarchy has been the chronic condition; a land full of disappointed spirits – unsatisfied aspirants to military fame, also unpaid; a land of vast lonely plains and stupendous hills, whose shaggy sides form impenetrable fastnesses – where the feeble pursued may bid defiance to the strong pursuer.

And such is the land of Anahuac. Even within sight of its grandest cities there are places of concealment – harbours of refuge – alike free to the political patriot, and the outlawed picaro.

Like other strangers to New Spain, before setting foot upon its shores, I was incredulous about this peculiarity of its social condition. It was too abnormal to be true. I had read and heard tales of its brigandage, and believed them to be tinged with exaggeration. A diligencia stopped every other day, often when accompanied by an escort of dragoons – twenty to fifty in number; the passengers maltreated, at times murdered – and these not always common people, but often officers of rank in the army, representatives of the Congresa, senators of the State, and even high dignitaries of the Church!

Afterwards I had reason to believe in the wholesale despoliation. I was witness to more than one living illustration of it.

But, in truth, it is not so very different from what is daily, hourly, occurring among ourselves. It is dishonesty under a different garb and guise – a little bolder than that of our burglar – a little more picturesque than that practised by the fustian-clad garotter of our streets.