The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

Chapter Forty Three

What are they?

The repast finished, the Holy Brethren, rising from the table together, forsook the Refectory. Some disappeared into cloisters on the sides of the great hallway, others strolled out in front, and seating themselves on benches that were about, commenced rolling and smoking cigarittos.

The Abbot, excusing himself to his stranger guests, on plea of pressing business, was invisible for a time. So they were permitted to betake themselves apart. Good manners secured them this. The others naturally supposed they might want a word in private, so no one offered to intrude upon them.

Just what they did want, and had been anxiously longing for. They had mutually to communicate; questions to be asked, and counsel taken together. Each was burning to know what the other thought of the company they had fallen into; the character of which was alike perplexing to both.

After getting hold of their hats they sauntered out by the great door, through which they had entered on the night before. The sun was now at meridian height, and his beams fell down upon the patch of open ground in front of the monastery, for a monastery they supposed it must be. A glance backward as they walked out from its walls showed its architecture purely of the conventual style; windows with pointed arches, the larger ones heavy mullioned, and a campanile upon the roof. This, however, without bells, and partially broken down, as was much of the outer mason work everywhere. Here and there were walls crumbling to decay, others half-hidden under masses of creeping plants and cryptogams; in short, the whole structure seemed more or less dilapidated.

Soon they entered under the shadow of the trees; long-leaved evergreen pines loaded with parasites and epiphytes, among these several species of orchids – rare phenomenon in the vegetable world, that would have delighted the eye of a botanist. As they wished to get beyond earshot of those left lounging by the porch, they continued on along a walk which had once been gravelled, but was now overgrown with weeds and grass. It formed a cool arcade, the thick foliage meeting overhead, and screening it from the rays of the sun. Following it for about a hundred yards or so, they again had the clear sky before them, and saw they were on the brow of a steep slope – almost a precipice – which, after trending a short distance right and left, took a turn back toward the mass of the mountain. It was the boundary of the platform on which the building stood, with a still higher cliff behind.

The point they had arrived at was a prominent one, affording view of the whole valley of Mexico, that lay spread out like a picture at their feet. And such a picture! Nothing in all the panoramic world to excel – if equal it.

But as scenery was not in their thoughts, they gave it but a glance, sitting down with faces turned towards one another. For there were seats here also – several rustic chairs under shady trees – it being evidently a favourite loitering place of the friars.

“Well, Cris, old comrade,” said Kearney, first to speak, “we’ve gone through a good deal this day or two in the way of change. What do you think of these new acquaintances of ours?”

“Thar, Cap, ye put a puzzler.”

“Are they monks?”

“Wal, them is a sort o’ anymals I hain’t had much dealin’s wi’; niver seed any till we kim inter Mexiko, ’ceptin’ one or two as still hangs round San Antone in Texas. But this chile knows little u’ thar ways, only from what he’s heerin’; an’ judgin’ be that he’d say thar ain’t nerry monk among ’em.”

“What then? Robbers?”

“Thar, agin, Cap, I’m clean confuscated. From what we war told o’ Mr Reevus in the gaol, they oughter be that. They sayed he war a captain o’ saltadores, which means highwaymen. An’ yet it do ’pear kewrous should be sich.”

“From what I know of him,” rejoined Kearney, “what I learned yesterday, it would be curious indeed – remarkably so. I’ve reason to believe him a gentleman born, and that his title of captain comes from his having been an officer in the army.”

“That mou’t be, an’ still wouldn’t contrary his havin’ turned to t’other. Down by the Rio Grande, thar are scores o’ Mexikin officers who’ve did the same, from lootenants up to kurnels – ay, ginrals. Thar’s Canales, who commanded the whole cavalry brigade – the ‘Chaperal fox’ as we Texans call him – an’ thar ain’t a wuss thief or cut-throat from Mantamoras up to the mountains. An’ what air ole Santy hisself but a robber o’ the meanest an’ most dastardly sort? So, ’tain’t any sign o’ honesty their bearing military titles. When they’ve a war on in thar revolushionary way, they turn sogers, atween times takin’ to the road.”

“Well, Cris, supposing these to be on the road now, what ought we to do, think you?”

“Neery use thinkin’, Cap, since thar’s no choice left us. ’Tain’t die dog, or eet the hatchet; and this chile goes for chawin’ the steel. Whativer they be, we’re bound to stick to ’em, an’ oughter be glad o’ the chance, seein’ we haint the shadder o’ another. If tuk agin’ we’d be strung up or shot sure. Highwaymen or lowwaymen, they’re the only ones about these diggin’s that kin gie us purtekshun, an’ I reck’n we may rely on them for that – so far’s they’re able.”

For a time Kearney was silent, though not thinking over what the Texan had said, much of which had passed through his mind before. The train of his reflections was carried further back, to the point where he was first brought into contact with Rivas, by their legs getting linked together. Then forward throughout the hours and incidents that came after, recalling everything that had occurred, in act as in conversation – mentally reviewing all, in an endeavour to solve the problem that was puzzling them.

Seeing him so occupied, and with a suspicion of how his thoughts were working, the Texan forebore further speech, and awaited the result.

“If we’ve fallen among banditti,” Kearney at length said, “it will be awkward to get away from them. They’ll want us to take a hand at their trade, and that wouldn’t be nice.”

“Sartinly not, Cap; anything but agreeable to eyther o’ us. It goes agin the grit o’ a honest man to think o’ belongin’ to a band o’ robbers. But forced to jine ’em, that ’ud be different. Besides, the thing ain’t the same in Mexico as ’twud be in Texas and the States. Hyar ’tisn’t looked on as beein’ so much o’ a disgrace, s’long’s they don’t practice cruelty. An’ I’ve heern Mexikins say ’tain’t wuss, nor yet so bad, as the way some our own poltishuns an’ lawyers plunder the people. I guess it be ’bout the same, when one gits used to it.”

To this quaint rigmarole of reasoning – not without reason in it, however, – Kearney only replied with a smile, allowing the Texan to continue; which he did, saying —

“After all, I don’t think they’re robbers any more than monks; if they be, they’re wonderfully well-behaved. A perliter set o’ fellers or better kump’ny this chile niver war in durin’ the hull coorse of his experience in Texas, or otherwhars. They ain’t like to lead us into anythin’ very bad, in the way o’ cruelty or killin’. So I say, let’s freeze to ’em, till we find they ain’t worthy of being froze to; then we must gie ’em the slip somehow.”

“Ah! if we can,” said his fellow-filibuster doubtingly. “But that is the thing for the far hereafter. The question is, what are we to do now?”

“No guess’n at all, Cap, as thar’s no choosin’ atween. We’re boun’ to be robbers for a time, or whatsomever else these new ’quaintances o’ ours be themselves. Thet’s sure as shootin’.”

“True,” returned the other musingly. “There seems no help for it. It’s our fate, old comrade, though one, I trust, we shall be able to control without turning highwaymen. I don’t think they are that. I can’t believe it.”

“Nor me neyther. One thing, howsomever, thet I hev obsarved air a leetle queery, an’ sort o’ in thar favour.”

“What thing?”

“Thar not hevin’ any weemen among ’em. I war in the kitchen this mornin’ ’fore ye war up, and kedn’t see sign o’ a petticoat about, the cookin’ bein’ all done by men sarvents. Thet, I’ve heern say, air the way wi’ monks; but not wi’ the other sort. What do you make o’t, Cap?”

“I hardly know, Cris. Possibly the Mexican brigands, unlike those of Italy, don’t care to encumber themselves with a following of the fair sex.”

“On t’other hand,” pursued the Texan, “it seems to contrary their bein’ o’ the religious sort, puttin’ out sentries as they do. Thar wor that one we passed last night, and this mornin’ I seed two go out wi’ guns, one takin’ each side, and soon arter two others comin’ in as if they’d been jest relieved from thar posts. Thar’s a path as leads down from both sides o’ the building.”

“All very strange, indeed,” said Kearney. “But no doubt we shall soon get explanation of it. By the way,” he added, changing tone with the subject, “where is the dwarf? What have they done with him?”

“That I can’t tell eyther, Cap. I haven’t seen stime o’ the critter since he war tuk away from us by that head man o’ the sarvents, and I don’t wish ever to set eyes on the skunk again. Cris Rock niver was so tired o’ a connexshun as wi’ thet same. Wagh!”

“I suppose they’ve got him shut up somewhere, and intend so keeping him – no doubt for good reasons. Ah! now we’re likely to hear something about the disposal of ourselves. Yonder comes the man who can tell us!”

This, as the soi-disant Abbot was seen approaching along the path.

Chapter Forty Four

The Abbot

“Amigo,” said their host, as he rejoined them, speaking to Kearney, who could alone understand him, “permit me to offer you a cigar – your comrade also – with my apologies for having forgotten that you smoked. Here are both Havannahs and Manillas, several brands of each. So choose for yourself.”

The mayor-domo, who attended him, carrying a huge mahogany case, had already placed it upon one of the rustic benches, and laid open the lid.

“Thanks, holy father,” responded Kearney, with a peculiar smile. “If you have no objection, I’ll stick to the Imperadoes. After smoking one of them a man need have no difficulty as to choice.”

At which he took an “Emperor” out of the case.

“I’m glad you like them,” observed the generous donor, helping him to a light. “They ought to be of good quality, considering what they cost, and where they come from. But, Don Florencio, don’t let the question of expense hinder you smoking as many as you please. My outlay on them was nil– they were a contribution to the monastery, though not exactly a charitable one.”

He said this with a sort of inward laugh, as though some strange history attached to the Imperadoes.

“A forced contribution, then,” thought the Irishman, the remark having made a strange, and by no means pleasant impression upon him.

The Texan had not yet touched the cigars, and when with a gesture the invitation was extended to him, he hung back, muttering to Kearney —

“Tell him, Cap, I’d purfar a pipe ef he ked accomerdate me wi’ thet ’ere article.”

“What says the Señor Cristoforo?” asked the Abbot.

“He’d prefer smoking a pipe, if you don’t object, and there be such a thing convenient.”

“Oh! un pipa. I shall see. Gregorio!”

He called after the mayor-domo, who was returning toward the house.

“Never mind, reverend Father,” protested Kearney; “content yourself with a cigar, Cris, and don’t give trouble.”

“I’m sorry I spoke o’ it,” said the Texan. “I oughter be only too gled to git a seegar, an’ it may be he wudn’t mind my chawin’, stead o’ smokin’ it! My stammuck feels starved for a bit o’ bacca. What wouldn’t I gie jest now for a plug o’ Jeemes’s River!”

“There, take one of the cigars and eat it if you like; I’m sure he’ll have no objection.”

Availing himself of the leave thus vicariously accorded the Texan picked out one of the largest in the collection, and, biting off about a third, commenced crunching it between his teeth, as though it was a piece of sugar-stick. This to the no small amusement of the Mexican, who, however, delicately refrained from making remark.

Nor was Cris hindered from having a smoke as well as a “chew,” – the mayor-domo soon after appearing with a pipe, a somewhat eccentric affair he had fished out from the back regions of the establishment.

Meanwhile their host had himself lit one of the “Emperors,” and was smoking away like a chimney. A somewhat comical sight at any time, or in any place, is a monk with a cigar in his mouth. But that the Abbot of the Cerro Ajusco was no anchorite they were already aware, and saw nothing in it to surprise them.

Seating himself beside Kearney, with face turned towards the valley, he put the question —

“What do you think of that landscape, Don Florencio?”

“Magnificent! I can’t recall having looked upon lovelier, or one with greater variety of scenic detail. It has all the elements of the sublime and beautiful.”

The young Irishman was back in his college classics with his countryman Burke.

“Make use of this,” said the Abbot, offering a small telescope which he drew out. “’Twill give you a better view of things.”

Taking the glass and adjusting it to his sight, Kearney commenced making survey of the valley, now bringing one portion of it within the field of telescopic vision, then another.

“Can you see the Pedregal?” asked the Abbot. “It’s close in to the mountain’s foot. You’ll recognise it by its sombre grey colour.”

“Certainly I see it,” answered the other, after depressing the telescope. “And the thicket we came through on its further side – quite distinctly.”

“Look to the right of that, then you’ll observe a large house, standing in the middle of the maguey fields. Have you caught it?”

“Yes; why do you ask?”

“Because that house has an interest for me – a very special one. Whom do you suppose it belongs to; or I should rather say did, and ought to belong to?”

“How should I know, holy father?” asked Kearney, thinking it somewhat strange his being so interrogated. “True,” responded the Abbot; “how could you, my son? But I’ll tell you. That magueyal is mine by right, though by wrong ’tis now the property of our late host, the Governor of the Acordada. His reward at the last confiscation for basely betraying his country and our cause.”

“What cause?” inquired the young Irishman, laying aside the glass, and showing more interest in what he heard than that he had been looking at. Country and cause! These were not the words likely to be on the lips of either monk or highwayman.

And that the man who had spoken to him was neither one nor other he had fuller proof in what was now further said.

“A cause, Señor Irlandes, for which I, Ruperto Rivas, am ready to lay down life, if the sacrifice be called for, and so most – I may say all – of those you’ve just met at almuerzo. You heard it proclaimed in the toast, ‘Patria y Libertad!’”

“Yes. And a grand noble sentiment it is. One I was gratified to hear.”

“And surprised as well. Is not that so, amigo?”

“Well, to be frank with you, holy father, I confess to something of the sort.”

“Not strange you should, my son. No doubt you’re greatly perplexed at what you’ve seen and heard since you came up here, with much before. But the time has come to relieve you; so light another cigar and listen.”

Chapter Forty Five

The Free Lances

“Try a Manilla this time,” said the Mexican, as Kearney was reaching out to take a cigar from the case. “Most people believe that the best can only come from Cuba. A mistake, that. There are some made in the Philippine Islands equal – in my opinion, superior – to any Havannahs. I speak of a very choice article, which don’t ever get into the hands of the dealers, and’s only known to the initiated. Some of our ricos import them by way of Acapulco. Those are a fair sample.”

The young Irishman made trial of the weed thus warmly recommended; to discover what contradicted all his preconceived ideas in the smoking line. He had always heard it said that the choicest cigars are Havannahs; but, after a few whiffs from that Manilla, which had never seen a cigar shop, he was willing to give up the “Imperadores.” His host, lighting one of the same, thus proceeded: “Pues, caballero; to give you the promised explanation. That the monks of my community are of an order neither very devout nor austere, you’ve already observed, no doubt, and may have a suspicion they’re not monks at all. Soldiers, every man; most having seen service, and many who have done gallant deeds. When I speak of them as soldiers, you will understand it in its true sense, Señor. With one or two exceptions, all have held commissions in our army, and with a like limitation, I may say all are gentlemen. The last revolution, which has again cursed our country by restoring its chronic tyrant, Santa Anna, of course threw them out; the majority, as myself, being proscribed, with a price set upon their heads.”

“Then you’re not robbers?”

This was said without thought, the words involuntarily escaping Kearney’s lips. But the counterfeit abbot, so far from feeling offence at them, broke out into a laugh, good-humouredly rejoining —

“Robbers, amigo mio! who told you we were that?”

The Irishman felt abashed, seeing he had committed himself.

“Don Ruperto,” he exclaimed, hastening to make the best of his blunder, “I owe you every apology. It arose from some talk I heard passing around in the prison. Be assured, I neither did nor could believe it.”

“Thank you, Señor!” returned the Mexican. “Your apologies are appreciated. And,” he added, putting on a peculiar smile, “in a way superfluous. I believe we do enjoy that repute among our enemies; and, to confess the truth, not without some reason.”

Kearney pricked up his ears, perplexity, with just a shade of trouble, again appearing upon his face. He said nothing, however, allowing the other to proceed.

“Carramba, yes!” continued the proscript. “’Tis quite true we do a little in the plundering line – now and then. We need doing it, Don Florencio. But for that, I mightn’t have been able to set so good a breakfast before you; nor wines of such quality, nor yet these delectable cigars. If you look to the right down there, you’ll see the pueblo of San Augustin, and just outside its suburbs, a large yellow house. From that came our last supply of drinkable and smokeable materials, including those here, mahogany and everything. A forced contribution, as I’ve hinted at. But, Señor, I should be sorry to have you think we levy blackmail indiscriminately. He from whom they were taken is one of our bitterest enemies; equally an enemy of our country. ’Twas all in the way of reprisal; fair, as you’ll admit, when you come to comprehend the circumstances.”

“I comprehend them now,” returned the listener, relieved, “quite; and I trust you’ll accept my apology.”

“Sans arrière pensée,” responded the Mexican, who could speak French, if not English, “I do frankly, freely. No reproach to you for supposing us robbers. I believe many others do, among whom we make appearance. Southward, however, in the State of Oaxaca, we are better known as ‘the Free Lances’; a title not so appropriate, either, since our weapons are only at the disposal of the Republic – our lives as well.”

“But,” questioned Kearney, “may I ask why you are habited as I now see you?”

“For a good reason, amigo. It adds to our security, giving all sorts of opportunities. Throughout Mexico, the cowl of the monk is the best passport a man could be provided with. Wearing it, we go about among the mountain villages without suspicion, the people believing that this old monastery, so long abandoned as to have been forgotten, has again become the dwelling-place of a religious order. Of course we don’t allow any of the rustics to approach it. Luckily, they are not curious enough to care for that, against the toil of climbing up here. If they attempt it, we have sentinels to stay them. For ourselves, we have learned to play the part of the holy friar, so that there would be difficulty in detecting the counterfeit. As it chances, we have with us one or two who once wore the cowl. These perverts have taught us all the tricks and passwords current among the fraternity. Hitherto they have availed us, and I trust will, till the time arrives for our casting off our cassock, and putting on the soldier’s coat. That day is not distant, Don Florencio; nearer than I expected, from what my comrades have told me since we came up. The State of Oaxaca is disaffected; as, indeed, the whole southern side of Acapulco, and a grito is anticipated ere long – possibly within a month. Alvarez, who controls in that quarter, will be the man to raise it; and the old Pinto chief will expect to be joined by the ‘Free Lances.’ Nor will he be disappointed. We are all burning to be at it. So, caballero, you see how it is with us. And now,” he added, changing tone and looking his listener earnestly in the face, “I have a question to put to yourself.”

“What?” asked the Irishman, seeing that he hesitated putting it.

“Will you be one of us?”

It was now Kearney’s turn to hesitate about the answer he ought to make. A proposition fraught with such consequences required consideration. To what would he be committing himself if he consented? And what if he should refuse? Besides, under the circumstances, was he free to refuse? That of itself was a question, a delicate one. He and his comrade, Cris Rock, owed their escape to this strange man, whatever he might be; and to separate from him now, even under full permission, would savour of ingratitude. Still more, after listening to what was further said. For, noting his embarrassment, and deeming it natural enough, the Mexican hastened to relieve him.

“If my proposal be not to your liking, Señor Irlandes, say so; and without fear of offence. All the same, you may rest assured of our protection while you remain with us; and I shall do what I can to get you safe out of the country. At all events, I won’t send you back to the Acordada gaol, and the tender care of its governor. So you can speak frankly, without reserve. Are you willing to be one of us?”

“I am!” was the answer, given without further hesitation.

Why should he have either hesitated or said nay? In the heart of a hostile country, an escaped prisoner, his life, as he felt sure, forfeited should he be retaken. Joining Rivas and his Free Lances might be his sole chance of saving it. Even had they been banditti, he could not have done better then.

“Yes, Don Ruperto,” he added; “if you deem me worthy of belonging to your brotherhood, be it so. I accept your invitation.”

“And your comrade, Don Cristoforo. Will he be of the same mind, think you?”

“Sure to be. I take it I can answer for him. But you shall hear for yourself. Rock!”

He called to the Texan, who, not understanding their dialogue, had sauntered apart, chewing away at the Imperador.

“Wal, Cap; what’s up now?” he asked on rejoining them.

“They’re no robbers, Cris,” said Kearney, speaking freely in their own tongue.

“Gled to hear it. I didn’t think they war – noways. Nor monks neyther, I guess?”

“Nor monks.”

“What then, Cap?”

“The same as yourself. Patriots who have been fighting for their country, and got defeated. That’s why they are here – in hiding.”

“Yes, Cap; I see it all, clar as coon’s track on a mud bar. Enemies o’ ole Santy, who’ve got beat it thar last risin’.”

“Just so. But they expect another rising soon, and wish us to join them. I’ve agreed, and said so. What say you?”

“Lordy, Cap; what a questun to be axed, an’ by yurself! Sure this chile air boun’ to stick to ye, whatsomever ye do. Ef they’d been brigants, I shed ’a put my conscience in my pocket, and goe’d in wi’ ’em all the same; s’long you’re agreed. Nor I wudn’t ’a minded turning monk for a spell. But men who intend foughtin’ for freedom? Haleluyah! Cris Rock air all thar! Ye may tell him so.”

“He consents,” said Kearney, reporting to the Mexican; “and willingly as myself. Indeed, Don Ruperto, we ought both to regard it as a grace – an honour – to be so associated, and we shall do the best we can to show ourselves worthy of it.”