The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

Chapter Thirty One

A Transformation

While the ladies set down upon the street were still plaintively appealing to those around, the carriage from which they had been so unceremoniously ejected was tearing along the Callé de San Francisco, going direct for the Acordada! But nothing could be farther from the thoughts of those in it than a return to that grand gaol, or even approaching its door. All of them knew there was a regular guard there; and instead of a single musket missing fire, they would more likely be saluted with a full volley, sending a shower of bullets about their ears. Bad marksmen as the Mexican soldiers are, they could not all miss. But even if they passed through that unscathed, beyond was the garita of San Cosmé, with another guard there. Indeed, go what way they would, there was none leading out into the country without a garita to be got through – and for the country they were aiming.

In these gates, however, there was a difference as to the strength of their guard detail, and the possibilities of their being passed. All of which one of the fugitives well understood – Rivas, who, as a matter of course, had assumed direction of everything relating to their flight. When opposite the old convent, which gives its name to the street, he leaned his head out of the carriage window, and said to the cochero: —

“Take the route by El Nino Perdido. You know the way; show it to him.”

The “him” was Cris Rock, who still had hold of the reins, and who, not understanding Spanish, could not be addressed direct.

The result of the order was, that shortly after, the horses were headed into a side street, indicated to the Texan by a nod perceptible only to himself. It would not do for the real coachman to appear as aiding their escape; though there was no danger of the dwarf observing it – the latter having been crammed down into the boot – where he was held with his head between Rock’s huge thighs, as in a vice.

The street into which they had turned was a narrow one running along a dead wall – that of the ancient monastery, which occupies acres of ground. And in its strip of sidewalk just then there was not a pedestrian to be seen – the very thing Rivas had been wishing for. Again speaking out, he said: —

“Slowly for a bit. I see a seraph out there. Tell the Tejanos to put it on.”

For the next hundred yards or so – along the dead wall – the horses went at a walk, they inside the carriage, as also one on the box, all the while busy as bees. And when they came out at the end of the quiet street entering upon a more frequented thoroughfare, the brisk pace was resumed; though no one could have believed it the same party, seen but a minute or two before driving at a racecourse speed along the Callé de Plateros. José alone looked the same, in his sky-blue livery and cockaded hat. But the big man by his side had so far effected a change that his mud-stained habiliments were hidden under an ample seraph, which covered him from neck to ankles; while the little one was altogether invisible, and under a threat of having his skull kicked in if he attempted to show himself.

Alike quick and complete had been the transformation of the “insides.” There now sat two gentlemen, decently, indeed rather stylishly dressed – one wearing a blue cloth cloak with velvet collar; the other a scarlet “manga,” with gold bullion embroidery from neck to shoulders.

About the equipage there was little now to make remark upon, or cause it to be regarded with suspicion. Some rich haciendado, who had been at the laying of the foundation-stone, on return to his country house, taking a friend along with him. The strapping fellow on the box might be mayor-domo of the estate – they are usually tall men – who had taken a fancy to try his hand at driving, and the coachman had surrendered him the reins. All perfectly natural, and en règle, even to the rapid speed at which the horses were put. The driver not accustomed to handling the ribbons would account for this. Besides, the sun was getting low, the casa de campo might be a good distance from town, and such a splendid turnout, belated on a country road would be like tempting Providence, and certainly the salteadores!

How little would its occupants have regarded an encounter with highwaymen. Perhaps just then they would have welcomed it. Nor much did Rivas anticipate further trouble in the streets of the city. He was familiar with those they were now driving along, and felt no fear of being obstructed there – at least by the people. Had they hung their chain out of the carriage window and exposed the prison dress, no one in that quarter would have cried “Stop thief!” The man who should so cry, would run the risk of having his clamour suddenly silenced.

For all they had apprehensions of the keenest. If they were in no danger while in the streets, they would be when parting from them – at El Nino Perdido. That gauntlet had yet to be run.

But while thinking of it, they had not been idle; instead, all the while planning and preparing for it; Rivas instructing the others as to how they should act.

“A garita of the usual kind,” he said to Kearney, making known the nature of the anticipated obstruction; “a gate across the road, with a guard-house alongside. There’s sure to be a sergeant and eight or ten files in it. If, by good luck, the gate be open, our best way will be to approach gently, then go through at a gallop. If shut, we’ll be called upon to show our best diplomacy. Leave all that to me. Failing to fool the guard, we must do battle with it. Anything’s better than be taken back to the Acordada. That would be sure death for me; and, if I mistake not, for yourself, Señor.”

“I’m sure of it. If we can’t get through without, let us fight our way, whatever the result.”

“Take this pair, then. They seem the most reliable. You Americanos are more skilled in the use of fire-arms than we. With us steel is preferred. But I’ll do the best I can with the other pair.”

This had reference to two pairs of pistols discovered under the carriage cushions. Nor were they the only weapons there; besides them were two long-bladed knives, and a pearl-handled stiletto – the last a tiny affair, which looked as though taken from the toilet case of a lady.

“See that yours are loaded and in firing order,” Rivas added, at the same time looking to his own.

The injunction was not needed, as the Irishman was already examining the weapons put into his hand, with a view to their efficiency.

Both pair of pistols were of the old-fashioned duelling kind – flintlocks, with barrels nearly a foot in length. Like as not the Condesa’s father and Don Ignacio Valverde, in days long gone by, had vindicated honour with them.

The inspection was quick and short, as had been all that preceded; pans sprung open, showing them filled with powder; rammers run into the barrels, then drawn out again, and replaced in their thimbles.

“Mine,” said Kearney, first to report, “are good for two lives.”

“And mine the same,” rejoined Rivas, “unless I’m laid low before I can pull the second trigger. Now to dispose of the knives. My countryman, the cochero, however trustworthy, mustn’t show fight. That would ruin all afterwards. But, if I mistake not, your colossal comrade is the man to make play with one of them in a pinch.”

“You may be sure of it. He was in the Alamo with Bowie, and at Goliad with Fanning. Don’t fear putting a knife into his hands; he’ll make good use of it if we’re driven to close quarters.”

“Let him have it, then. You give it, and tell him all.”

Kearney getting hold of one of the two knives, that seeming best suited for the hands he designed putting it in, passed it on to Cris Rock – not through the carriage window, but a hole cut in the leathern hood by the blade itself. Speaking through the same, he said —

“Cris! we’ve got to run a gate where there’s a guard of soldiers – maybe a dozen or so. You’re to drive gently up, and, if you see it open, pass through – then lay on the whip. Should it be shut, approach more briskly, and pull up impatient-like. But do nothing of yourself – wait till I give you the word.”

“Trust me, Cap; ye kin do that, I kilk’late.”

“I can, Cris. Take this knife, and if you hear pistols cracking behind, you’ll then know what to do with it.”

“I gie a guess, anyhow,” rejoined the Texan, taking hold of the knife, in a hand passed behind him. Then bringing it forward and under his eyes, he added, “’Taint sech a bad sort o’ blade eyther, tho’ I weesh ’twas my ole bowie they took from me at Mier. Wal, Cap; ye kin count on me makin’ use o’t, ef ’casion calls, an’ more’n one yaller-belly gittin’ it inter his guts; notwithstandin’ this durnation clog that’s swinging at my legs. By the jumping Geehosophat, if I ked only git shet o’ that I’d – ”

What he would do or intended saying, had to stay unsaid. Rivas interrupted him, pulling Kearney back, and telling him to be ready with the pistols. For they were nearing the place of danger.

Chapter Thirty Two

An Unlooked-for Salute

In a strict military sense the capital of Mexico cannot be called a fortified city. Still, it has defences, one being an enceinte wall, which envelops it all round, leaving no straggled suburb, scarce so much as a house, outside. Compact and close stand the dwellings of the modern city as those of ancient Tenochtitlan, whose site it occupies, though the waves of Tezcuco and Xochimilco no longer lap up to its walls.

The enceinte spoken of is a mere structure of “adobes,” large sun-baked blocks of mud and straw – in short, the bricks of the Egyptians, whose making so vexed Moses and the Israelites. Here and there may be seen a little redoubt, with a battery of guns in it; but only on revolutionary occasions – the wall, so far as defence goes, more concerning the smuggler than the soldier; and less contraband from abroad than infringement of certain regulations of home commerce – chief of them the tax called “alcabala,” corresponding to the octroi of France, and the corvée of some other European countries.

The tax is collected at the “garitas,” of which there is one on every road leading out of the city, or rather into it; for it is the man who enters, not he making exit, who is called upon to contribute to the alcabala. It is levied on every article or commodity brought from the country in search of a city market. Nothing escapes it; the produce of farm and garden, field and forest – all have to pay toll at the garitas, so losing a considerable percentage of their value. The brown aboriginal, his “burro” laden with charcoal, or skins of pulque, or himself staggering under a load of planks heavy enough to weigh down a donkey, which he has transported from a mountain forest – ten or twenty miles it may be – is mulcted in this blackmail before he can pass through a garita.

Not unfrequently he is unable to meet the demand till he have made sale of the taxed commodity. On such occasions he hypothecates his hat, or frezada, leaving it at the gate, and going on bareheaded or bare-shouldered to the market, to redeem the pawned article on return.

Save through these gates there is no access to, or egress from, the Mexican capital; and at each, besides the official having charge of the revenue matters, a soldier-guard is stationed, with a guard-house provided; their duties being of a mixed, three-cornered kind – customs, police, and military. Five or six such posts there are, on the five or six roads leading out from the city, like the radiating limbs of a star-fish; and one of these is the garita El Nino Perdido – literally, the gate of the “Lost Child.” It is, however, one through which the traffic is of secondary importance; since it is not on any of the main routes of travel. That which it bars is but a country road, communicating with the villages of Mixcoac, Coyoacan, and San Angel. Still, these being places of rural residence, where some of the familiares principes have country houses, a carriage passing through the gate of the Lost Child is no rarity. Besides, from the gate itself runs a Calzada, or causeway, wide and straight for nearly two miles, with a double row of grand old trees along each side, whose pleasant shade invites, and often receives, visits from city excursionists out for a stroll, ride, or drive. Near the end of the second mile it angles abruptly to the right, in the direction of San Angel – a sharp corner the writer has good reason to remember, having been shot at by salteadores, luckily missed, while passing round it on his way from country quarters to the city. A horse of best blood saved his blood there, or this tale would never have been told.

Asking the reader’s pardon for a personal digression – with the excuse that it may throw light on the scene to follow – it will be understood how easily the guard on duty at the gate might be “thrown off guard” by a carriage passing through it; especially on that day when there were so many, by reason of the grand doings in the city.

Several had just passed, going country-wards; for it was the season of rural sojourn among the “ricos.” So, when another appeared, heading in the same direction, the guard-sergeant at Nino Perdido saw nothing amiss, or to be suspicious of; instead, something to inspire him with respect. He had been on guard at the Palace scores of times; and by appearance knew all who were accustomed to pass in and out, more especially those holding authority. Liveries he could distinguish at any distance; and when he saw a carriage approaching along the street, with a coachman in sky-blue and silver, cockaded, he did not need its being near to recognise the equipage of one of the Cabinet Ministers.

Though a non-commissioned officer, he was a man of ambitious aims; dreaming of gold bullion in the shape of epaulettes; and he had long had his eye on the epaulette of an alferez– officers of this rank being allowed only one. The good word of a Cabinet Minister, whether war, navy, or Hacienda, could give him what he was wishing for, easy at a nod; and here was an opportunity of winning it.

“Cabo!” he cried out to his corporal, in a flurry of excitement, “throw open the gate – quick! Fall in, men! Dress up – ready to present arms! See that you do it handsomely!”

It was in his favour, and so he congratulated himself that the carriage came on rather slowly, so that he had ample time to get his half-dozen files well set-up and dressed for the salute.

There was some buttoning of jackets, stocks to be adjusted round shirtless necks, with shakos to be searched for inside the guard-house, and hurriedly clapped on. Still, it was all got through in good time; and, when at length the carriage came abreast, the guard was found standing at “present arms,” the sergeant himself saluting in the most gracious manner.

They inside, knowing how, returned the salute in true soldier style, though with a surprised expression upon their faces. No wonder. Where they had anticipated difficulty and danger, they were received with more than civility – accorded military honours!

Chapter Thirty Three

“Is it a Grito?”

The soldiers of the guard had grounded arms, and were sauntering back to their benches, when something came into the sergeant’s mind which caused him misgiving.

Was it possible he had been paying honours to those undeserving of them?

He was sure of it being the carriage of Don Ignacio Valverde; his horses and livery too. But nothing more. None of the party was known to him as belonging to Don Ignacio’s family or servants. For José was but groom or second coachman, who occasionally drove out his young mistress, but never to the Palace, or other place where the sergeant had been on duty.

Equally a stranger to him was the big fellow on the box, who had hold of the reins, as also one of the gentlemen inside. It occurred to him, however, that the face of the other was familiar – awakening the memories of more than ordinary interest.

“Mil diablos!” he muttered to himself as he stood gazing after the retreating equipage. “If that wasn’t my old captain, Don Ruperto Rivas, there isn’t another man in Mexico more like him. I heard say he had turned salteador, and they’d taken him only the other day. Carria! what’s that?”

The carriage, as yet not over a hundred yards from the garita, still going on at a rather moderate pace, was seen suddenly to increase its speed: in fact, the horses had started off at a gallop! Nor was this from any scare or fright, but caused by a sharp cut or two of the whip, as he could tell by seeing the arm of the big man on the box several times raised above the roof, and vigorously lowered again. Extraordinary behaviour on his part; how was it to be accounted for? And how explain that of the gentleman inside, who appeared satisfied with the changed pace? At all events they were doing naught to prevent it, for again and again the whip strokes were repeated. None of the party were intoxicated; at least they had no appearance of it when they passed the gate. A little excited-looking, though no more than might be expected in men returning from a public procession. But an elegant light equipage with horses in full gallop, so unlike the carriage of a Cabinet Minister! What the mischief could it mean?

The guard-sergeant had just asked himself the question, when, hark! a gun fired at the citadela! Soon after another from the military college of Chapultepec! And from the direction of the Plaza Grande the ringing of bells. First those of the Cathedral, then of the Acordada, and the convent of San Francisco, with other convents and churches, till there was a clangour all over the city!

Hark again! A second gun from the citadel, quickly followed by another from Chapultepec, evidently signals and their responses!

“What the demonio is it? A pronunciamento?” Not only did the sergeant thus interrogate, but all the soldiers under his command, putting the question to one another. It would be nothing much to surprise them, least of all himself. He was somewhat of a veteran, and had seen nigh a score of revolutions, counting ententes.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it is,” he suggested, adding, as a third gun boomed out from the citadel; “it must be a grito!”

“Who’s raising it this time, I wonder?” said one of the soldiers, all now in a flurry of excited expectancy.

Several names of noted militarios were mentioned at a venture; but no one could say for certain, nor even give a guess with any confidence. They could hardly yet realise its being the breaking out of a pronunciamento, since there had been no late tampering with them – the usual preliminary to revolutions.

It might not be, after all. But they would be better able to decide should they hear the rattle of small arms, and for this listened they all ears.

More than one of them would have been delighted to hear it. Not that they disliked the régime of the Dictator, nor the man himself. Like all despots he was the soldiers friend; professed and giving proofs of it, by indulging them in soldierly licence – permission to lord it over the citizen. But much as they liked “El Cojo” (Game leg), as they called him, a grito would be still more agreeable to them – promising unlimited loot.

The sergeant had views of his own, and reflections he kept to himself. He felt good as sure there was something up, and could not help connecting it with the carriage which had just passed. He now no longer doubted having seen his old captain in it. But how came he to be there, and what doing? He had been in the city, that’s certain – was now out of it, and going at a speed that must mean something more than common. He could get to San Augustin by that route. There were troops quartered there; had they declared for the Liberals?

It might be so, and Rivas was on his way to meet and lead them on to the city. At any moment they might appear on the calzada, at the corner round which the carriage had just turned.

The sergeant was now in a state of nervous perplexity. Although his eyes were on the road his thoughts were not there, but all turned inward, communing with himself. Which side ought he to take? That of the Liberales or the Parti Pretre? He had been upon both through two or three alternate changes, and still he was but a sargento. And as he had been serving Santa Anna for a longer spell than usual, without a single step of promotion, he could not make much of a mistake by giving the Republican party one more trial. It might get him the long-coveted epaulette of alferez.

While still occupied with his ambitious dreams, endeavouring to decide into which scale he should throw the weight of his sword, musket, and bayonet, the citadel gun once more boomed out, answered by the canon of Chapultepec.

Still, there was no cracking of rifles, nor continuous rattle of musketry, such as should be heard coincident with that cry which in the Mexican metropolis usually announces a change of government.

It seemed strange not only to him, but all others on guard at El Nino. But it might be a parley – the calm before the storm, which they could not help thinking would yet burst forth, in full fusillade – such as they had been accustomed to.

Listening on, however, they heard not that; only the bells, bells, bells, jingling all over the city, as though it were on fire, those of the cathedral leading the orchestra of campanule music. And yet another gun from the citadel, with the answering one from the “Summer Palace of the Monctezunas.”

They were fast losing patience, beginning to fear there would be no pronunciamento after all, and no chance of plundering, when the notes of a cavalry bugle broke upon their ears.

“At last!” cried one, speaking the mind of all, and as though the sound were a relief to them. “That’s the beginning of it. So, camarados! we may get ready. The next thing will be the cracking of carbines!”

They all ran to the stack of muskets, each clutching at his own. They stood listening as before; but not to hear any cracking of carbines. Instead, the bugle again brayed out its trumpet notes, recognisable as signals of command; which, though only infantry men, they understood. There was the “Quick march!” and “Double quick!” but they had no time to reflect on what it was for, nor need, as just then a troop of Hussars was seen defiling out from a side street, and coming on towards them at a charging gallop.

In a few seconds they were up to the gate, which, being still open, they could have passed through, without stop or parley. For all, they made both, the commanding officer suddenly reining up, and shouting back along the line —

“Alto!”

The “halt” was proclaimed by the trumpeter at his side, which brought the galloping cohort to a stand.

“Sargento!” thundered he at their head to the guard-sergeant, who, with his men re-formed, was again at “Present arms!”

“Has a carriage passed you, guard – a landau – grey horses, five men in it?”

“Only four men, Señor Colonel; but all the rest as you describe it.”

“Only four! What can that mean? Was there a coachman in light blue livery – silver facings?”

“The same, Señor Colonel.”

“That’s it, sure; must be. How long since it passed?”

“Not quite twenty minutes, Señor Colonel. It’s just gone round the corner; yonder where you see the dust stirring.”

“Adelante!” cried the colonel, without waiting to question further, and as the trumpet gave out the “Forward – gallop!” the Hussar troop went sweeping through the gate, leaving the guard-sergeant and his men in a state of great mystification and no little chagrin; he, their chief spokesman, saying with a sorrowful air —

“Well hombres, it don’t look like a grito, after all!”

Chapter Thirty Four

An ill-used Coachman

“Such forethought?” exclaimed Rivas, as the landau went rattling along the road with the speed of a war-chariot, “wonderful!” he went on. “Ah, for cleverness, commend me to a woman – when her will’s in it. We men are but simpletons to them. My glorious Ysabel! She’s the sort for a soldier’s wife. But don’t let me be claiming all the credit for her. Fair play to the Señorita Valverde; who has, I doubt not, done her share of the contriving – on your account, Señor.”