The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

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.