The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley
On that same day in which Carlos Santander had shown himself at the Acordada, only at an early hour, the would-be Emperor was seated in his apartment of the palace in which he was wont to give audience to ordinary visitors. He had got through the business affairs of the morning, dismissed his Ministers, and was alone, when one of the aides-de-camp in attendance entered with a card, and respectfully saluting him, laid it on the table before him.
“Yes; say I can see him. Tell him to come in,” he directed, soon as reading the name on the card.
In the door, on its second opening, appeared Carlos Santander, in the uniform of a colonel of Hussars, gold bedizened, and laced from collar to cuffs.
“Ah! Señor Don Carlos!” exclaimed the Dictator in a joyous, jocular way, “what’s your affair? Coming to tell me of some fresh conquest you’ve made among the muchachas? From your cheerful countenance I should say it’s that.”
“Excellentissimo!”
“Oh! you needn’t deny, or look so demure about it. Well, you’re a lucky fellow to be the lady killer I’ve heard say you are.”
“Your Excellency, that’s only say-say; I ought rather to call it slander. I’ve no ambition to be thought such a character. Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
“If you could assure me, but you can’t. I’ve had you long enough under my eye to know better. Haven’t I observed your little flirtations with quite half a score of our señoritas, among them a very charming young lady you met in Louisiana, if I mistake not?”
Saying this, he fixed his eyes on Santander’s face in a searching, interrogative way, as though he himself felt more than a common interest in the charming young lady who had been met in Louisiana.
Avoiding his glance, as evading the question, the other rejoined —
“It is very good of your Excellency to take such interest in me, and I’m grateful. But I protest – ”
“Come, come! amigo mio! No protestations. ’Twould only be adding perjury to profligacy. Ha, ha, ha!”
And the grand dignitary leaned back in his chair, laughing. For it was but badinage, and he in no way intended lecturing the staff-colonel on his morality, nor rebuking him for any backslidings. Instead, what came after could but encourage him in such wise, his chief continuing —
“Yes, Señor Don Carlos, I’m aware of your amourettes, for which I’m not the man to be hard upon you. In that regard, I myself get the credit – so rumour says – of living in a glass house, so I cannot safely throw stones. Ha, ha!”
The tone of his laugh, with his self-satisfied look, told of his being aught but angry with rumour for so representing him.
“Well, Excellentissimo,” here put in the subordinate, “it don’t much signify what the world says, so long as one’s conscience is clear.”
“Bravo – bravissimo!” exclaimed the Most Excellent. “Ha, ha, ha!” he continued, in still louder cachinnation. “Carlos Santander turned moralist! And moralising to me! It’s enough to make a horse laugh. Ha, ha, ha!”
The staff-colonel appeared somewhat disconcerted, not knowing to what all this might be tending. However, he ventured to remark —
“I am glad to find your Excellency in such good humour this morning.”
“Ah! that’s because you’ve come to ask some favour from me, I suppose.” Santa Anna had a habit of interlarding his most familiar and friendly discourse with a little satire, sometimes very disagreeable to those he conversed with. “But never mind,” he rattled on, “though I confess some surprise at your hypocrisy, which is all thrown away upon me, amigo! I don’t at all wonder at your success with the señoritas. You’re a handsome fellow, Don Carlos; and if it weren’t for that scar on your cheek – By the way, you never told me how you came by it. You hadn’t it when you were last with us.”
The red flushed into Santander’s face, and up over his forehead to the roots of his hair. He had told no one in Mexico, nor anywhere else, how he came by that ugly thing on his jaw, which beard could not conceal, and which he felt as a brand of Cain.
“It’s a scar of a sword-cut, your Excellency. I got it in a duel.”
“Ah! An honourable wound, then. But where?”
“In New Orleans.”
“Just the place for that sort of thing, as I know, having been there myself.” (Santa Anna had made a tour of the States, on parole, after the battle of San Jacinto, where he was taken prisoner.) “A very den of duellists is Nuevo Orleans; many of them maîtres d’éscrime. But who was your antagonist? I hope you gave him as good as you got.”
“I did, your Excellency; that, and more.”
“You killed him?”
“Not quite. I would have done so, but that my second interposed, and persuaded me to let him off.”
“Well, he hasn’t let you off, anyhow. What was the quarrel about? Carrai! I needn’t ask; the old orthodox cause – a lady, of course?”
“Nay; for once your Excellency is in error. Our desajio originated in something quite different.”
“What thing?”
“An endeavour on my part to do a service to Mexico and its honoured ruler.”
“Oh, indeed! In what way, Señor Colonel?”
“That band of filibusteros, of which, as your Excellency will remember – ”
“Yes – yes,” interrupted Santa Anna impatiently. He evidently knew all about that, and preferred hearing no more of it. “It was one of the filibusteros you fought with, I suppose?”
“Yes, Excellentissimo; the one they chose for their captain.”
“You were angry at his being preferred to yourself, and so called him out? Well, that was cause enough to a man of your mettle. But what became of him afterwards? Was he among those at Mier?”
“He was.”
“Killed there?”
“No, your Excellency; only taken prisoner.”
“Shot at Salado?”
“Neither that, Excellentissimo.”
“Then he must be here?”
“He is here, your Excellency.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kearney – Florence Kearney, un Irlandes.”
A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna’s features, a sort of knowing look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of him on a matter relating to this same man – Florence Kearney; in short, to obtain clemency for the young Irishman – full pardon, if possible. But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for his application – as also who it originated from – Santa Anna had conceived suspicions.
Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply inquiring —
“Is the Irlandes at Tacubaya?”
“No, your Excellency; he’s in the Acordada.”
“Since you had the disposal of the Tejano prisoners, I can understand that,” returned the Dictator, with a significant shrug. “It’s about him, then, you’re here, I suppose. Well, what do you want?”
“Your authority, Excellentissimo, to punish him as he deserves.”
“For making that tracing on your cheek, eh? You repent not having punished him more at the time when you yourself had the power? Isn’t it so, Señor Colonel?”
Santander’s face reddened, as he made reply —
“Not altogether, your Excellency. There’s something besides, for which he deserves to be treated differently from the others.”
Santa Anna could have given a close guess at what the exceptional something was. To his subtle perception a little love drama was gradually being disclosed; but he kept his thoughts to himself, with his eyes still searchingly fixed on Santander’s face.
“This Kearney,” continued the latter, “though an Irishman, is one of Mexico’s bitterest enemies, and especially bitter against your Excellency. In a speech he made to the filibusteros, he called you a usurper, tyrant, traitor to liberty and your country – ay, even coward. Pardon me for repeating the vile epithets he made use of.”
Santa Anna’s eyes now scintillated with a lurid sinister light, as if filled with fire, ready to blaze out. In the American newspapers he had often seen his name coupled with such opprobrious phrases, but never without feeling savagely wrathful. And not the less that his own innate consciousness told him it was all as said.
“Chingara!” he hissed out, for he was not above using this vulgar exclamation. “If it is true what you say, Don Carlos, as I presume it is, you can do as you like with this dog of an Irlandes! have him shot, or have him despatched by La Garrota, whichever seems best to you. But no – stay! That won’t do yet. There’s a question about these Tejanos with the United States Minister; and as this Kearney is an Irishman, and so a British subject, the representative of that country may make trouble too. So till all this is settled, the Irlandes mustn’t be either shot or garrotted. Instead, let him be treated tenderly. You comprehend?”
The staff-colonel did comprehend; the emphasis on the “tenderly” made it impossible for him to mistake the Dictator’s meaning, which was just as he desired it. As he passed out of the presence, and from the room, his countenance was lit up, or rather darkened, by an expression of fiendish triumph. He now had it in his power to humiliate them who had so humbled him.
“Quite a little comedy!” soliloquised Santa Anna, as the door closed on his subordinate, “in which, before it’s played out, I may myself take a part. She’s a charming creature, this Señorita Valverde. But, ah! nothing to the Condesa. That woman – witch, devil, or whatever I may call her – bids fair to do what woman never did – make a fool of Lopez de Santa Anna.”
Chapter Nineteen
A Wooden-Legged Lothario
For some time the Dictator remained in his seat lighting cigarrito after cigarrito, and puffing away at them furiously. The look of light frivolity had forsaken his face, which was now overcast with gloom.
At this time, as said, he wielded supreme unlimited power over the Mexican people – even to life and death. For although he might not recklessly or openly decree this, he could bring it about secretly – by means which, if rumour spoke true, he had more than once made use of. Indeed, there stood against his name more than one well-confirmed record of assassination.
Thought of this may have had something to do with the cloud that had come over his features; though not for any qualms of conscience for the murders he may have committed or hired others to commit. More likely a fear that he himself might some day meet a similar fate; like all despots he dreaded the steel of the assassin. By his corrupt administration, he had encouraged bravoism till it had become a dangerous element in the social life of his country – almost an institution – and it was but natural he should fear the bravo’s blade turned against himself.
Another apprehension may at this time have been troubling him. Although to all appearance secure in the dictatorial chair, with a likelihood of his soon converting it into a real throne, he had his misgivings about this security. By imprisonments, executions, banishments, and confiscations, he had done all in his power to annihilate the Liberal party. But though crushed and feeble now, its strength was but in abeyance, its spirit still lived, and might again successfully assert itself. No man knew this better than he himself; and no better teacher could he have had than his own life’s history, with its alternating chapters of triumph and defeat. Even then there was report of a pronunciamento in one of the northern cities of the Republic – the State, by a polite euphemism, being still so designated. Only a faint “gritto” it was, but with a tone that resembled the rumbling of distant thunder, which might yet be heard louder and nearer.
Little, however, of matters either revolutionary or political was he thinking now. The subject uppermost in his mind was that latent on his lips – woman. Not in a general way, but with thoughts specially bent upon one of them, or both, with whose names he had just been making free. As his soliloquy told, a certain “Condesa” had first place in his reflections, she being no other than the Condesa Almonté. In his wicked way he had made love to this young lady, as to many others; but, unlike as with many others, he had met repulse. Firm, though without indignation, his advances not yet having gone so far, nor been so bold, as to call for this. He had only commenced skirmishing with her; a preliminary stroke of his tactics being that invitation to ride in the State carriage extended to Doña Luisita Valverde, while withheld from the Countess – an astute manoeuvre on his part, and, as he supposed, likely to serve him. In short, the old sinner was playing the old game of “piques.” Nor did he think himself so ancient as to despair of winning at it. In such contests he had too often come off victorious, and success might attend upon him still. Vain was he of his personal appearance, and in his earlier days not without some show of reason. In his youth Santa Anna would claim to be called, if not handsome, a fairly good-looking man. Though a native Mexican, a Vera-cruzano, he was of pure Spanish race and good blood – the boasted sangre-azul. His features were well formed, oval, and slightly aquiline, his complexion dark, yet clear, his hair and moustaches black, lustrous, and profuse. But for a sinister cast in his eyes, not always observable, his countenance would have been pleasing enough. As it was he prided himself upon it even now that he was well up in years, and his hair becoming silvered. As for the moustaches, black pomatum kept them to their original colour.
One thing soured him, even more than advancing age – his wooden leg. ’Tis said he could never contemplate that without an expression of pain coming over his features, as though there was gout in the leg itself giving him a twinge. And many the time – nay, hundreds of times – did he curse Prince de Joinville. For it was in defending Vera Cruz against the French, commanded by the latter, he had received the wound, which rendered amputation of the limb necessary. In a way he ought to have blessed the Prince, and been grateful for the losing of it rather than otherwise. Afterwards the mishap stood him in good stead; at election times when he was candidate for the Chief Magistracy of the State. Then he was proud to parade the artificial limb; and did so to some purpose. It was, indeed, an important element in his popularity, and more than once proved an effective aid to his reinstatement. With a grim look, however, he regarded it now. For though it had helped him politically, he was not thinking of politics, and in what he was thinking about he knew it an obstruction. A woman to love a man with a wooden leg! And such a woman as Ysabel Almonté! Not that he put it to himself in that way; far from it. He had still too good an opinion, if not of his personal appearance, at least of his powers otherwise, and he even then felt confident of success. For he had just succeeded in removing another obstacle which seemed likely to be more in his way than the wooden leg. He had but late come to know of it; but as soon as knowing, had taken measures to avert the danger dreaded – by causing the imprisonment of a man. For it was a man he feared, or suspected, as his competitor for the affections of the Condesa. It had cost him no small trouble to effect this individual’s arrest, or rather capture. He was one of the proscribed, and in hiding; though heard of now and then as being at the head of a band of salteadore– believed to have turned highwayman.
But he had been taken at length, and was at that moment in the gaol of the Acordada; which Santa Anna well knew, having himself ordered his incarceration there, and given other instructions regarding him to the gaol-governor, who was one of his creatures.
After sitting for some time, as he stretched out his hand, and held the end of his paper cigar to the red coals burning in a brazero on the table before him, the frown upon his features changed to a demoniac smile. Possibly from the knowledge that this man was now in his power. Sure was he of this; but what would he not have given to be as sure of her being so too!
Whether his reflections were sweet or bitter, or which predominated, he was not permitted longer to indulge in them. The door again opening – after a tap asking permission to enter – showed the same aide-de-camp. And on a similar errand as before, differing only in that now he placed two cards on the table instead of one; the cards themselves being somewhat dissimilar to that he had already brought in.
And with altogether a different air did Santa Anna take them up for examination. He was enough interested at seeing by their size and shape that those now desiring an audience of him were ladies. But on reading the names, his interest rose to agitation, such as the aide-de-camp never before had seen him exhibit, and which so much astonished the young officer that he stood staring wonderingly, if not rudely, at the grand dignitary, his chief. His behaviour, however, was not noticed, the Dictator’s eyes being all upon the cards. Only for an instant though. If he gave ready reception to his late visitor, still readier did he seem desirous of according it to those now seeking speech with him.
“Conduct the ladies in,” was his almost instantaneous command, as quickly retracted. For soon as spoken he countermanded it; seemingly from some afterthought which, as a codicil, had suddenly occurred to him. Then followed a chapter of instructions to the aide-de-camp, confidential, and to the effect that the ladies were not to be immediately introduced. He was to keep them in conversation in the ante-chamber outside, till he should hear the bell.
Judging by his looks as he went out the young subaltern was more than satisfied with the delay thus enjoined upon him. It was aught but a disagreeable duty; for, whether acquainted with the ladies who were in waiting, or not, he must have seen that both were bewitchingly beautiful – one being Luisa Valverde, the other Ysabel Almonté.
Chapter Twenty
A Pair of Beautiful Petitioners
Soon as the aide-de-camp had closed the door behind him, Santa Anna sprang up from his seat and hastily stumped it to a large cheval glass which stood on one side of the room. Squaring himself before this he took survey of his person from crown to toes. He gave a pull or two at his moustaches, twisting their points, and turning them upward along his cheeks. Then running his fingers comb-like through his hair, he gave that also a jaunty set. In fine, straightening himself in his gold-braided uniform frock, with a last glance down to his feet – this resulting in a slight grimace – he returned to the state chair and reseated himself.
With all his gallantry and politeness – and to these he made much pretension – it was not his custom to receive lady visitors standing. In the upright attitude the artificial leg made him look stiff, and he preferred stowing it away under the table. Besides, there was his dignity, as the grand figure-head of the nation, which he now wished to have its full effect. Leaning forward, he gave a downward blow to the spring of the table bell; then assuming an attitude of expectant grandeur, sate expectant. This time the aide-de-camp required no passing to and fro; and the door again opening, the ladies were ushered into the august presence.
In their air and manner they betrayed agitation too, while the serious expression upon their features told they were there on no trivial errand.
“Pray be seated, ladies,” said the Dictator, after exchanging salutations with them. “’Tis not often the Condesa Almonté honours the Palacio with her presence, and for the Señorita Valverde, were it not for official relations with her father, I fear we should see even less of her than we do.”
While speaking he pointed to a couple of couch chairs that stood near the table.
They sat down rather hesitatingly, and slightly trembling. Not that either would have been at all timid had the occasion been a common one. Both were of Mexico’s best blood, the Condesa one of the old noblesse who hold their heads higher even than the political chief of the State, when he chances to be – as more than once has occurred – an adventurer of humbler birth. Therefore, it was not any awe of the great dignitary that now unnerved them, but the purpose for which they were seeking speech with him. Whether Santa Anna guessed it, or not, could not be told by his looks. An experienced diplomatist, he could keep his features fixed and immovable as the Sphinx, or play them to suit the time and the tune. So, after having delivered himself, as above, with the blandest of smiles upon his face, he remained silent, awaiting the rejoinder.
It was the Condesa who made it.
“Your Excellency,” she said, doing her utmost to look humble; “we have come to beg a favour from you.”
A gratified look, like a gleam of light, illuminated Santa Anna’s swarthy features. Ysabel Almonté begging favours from him! What better could he have wished? With all his command of features he but ill-concealed the triumph he now felt. It flashed up in his eyes as he said respondingly —
“A favour you would ask? Well, if it be within my power to grant it, neither the Condesa Almonté, nor the Doña Luisa Valverde need fear refusal. Be frank, then, and tell me what it is.”
The Countess, with all her courage, still hesitated to declare it. For despite the ready promise of compliance, she did fear a refusal; since it had been asked for that same morning and though not absolutely refused, the answer left but little hope of its being conceded.
As is known, at an earlier hour Don Ignacio had paid a visit to the Palacio, to seek clemency for a prisoner-of-war, Florence Kearney. But pardon for a state prisoner was also included in his application – that being Ruperto Rivas. Of all this the ladies were well aware, since it was at their instigation, and through their importunity, he had acted. It was only, therefore, by the urgency of a despairing effort, as a dernier ressort, these had now sought the presence as petitioners, and naturally they dreaded denial. Noting the Condesa’s backwardness – a thing new but not displeasing to him, since it gave promise of influence over her – Santa Anna said interrogatively:
“Might this favour, as you are pleased to term it, have ought to do with a request lately made to me by Don Ignacio Valverde?”
“’Tis the same, your Excellency,” answered the Countess, at length recovering spirit, but still keeping up the air of meek supplication she had assumed.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Dictator, adding, “that grieves me very much.”
He made an attempt to look sorry, though it needed none for him to appear chagrined. This he was in reality, and for reasons intelligible. Here were two ladies, both of whom he had amatory designs upon, each proclaiming by her presence – as it were telling him to his teeth, the great interest she felt in another – that or she would not have been there!
“But why, Excellentissimo?” asked the Countess, entreatingly. “What is there to grieve you in giving their freedom to two men – gentlemen, neither of whom has been guilty of crime, and who are in prison only for offences your Excellency can easily pardon?”
“Not so easily as you think, Condesa. You forget that I am but official head of the State, and have others to consult – my Ministers and the Congress – in affairs of such magnitude. Know, too, that both these men for whom you solicit pardon have been guilty of the gravest offences; one of them, a foreigner, an enemy of our country, taken in arms against it; the other, I am sorry to say, a citizen, who has become a rebel, and worse still, a robber!”
“’Tis false!” exclaimed the Countess, all at once changing tone, and seeming to forget the place she was in and the presence. “Don Ruperto Rivas is no robber; never was, nor rebel either; instead, the purest of patriots!”
Never looked Ysabel Almonté lovelier than at that moment – perhaps never woman. Her spirit roused, cheeks red, eyes sparkling with indignation, attitude erect – for she had started up from her chair – she seemed to be the very impersonation of defiance, angry, but beautiful. No longer meek or supplicating now. Instinct or intuition told her it would be of no use pleading further, and she had made up her mind for the worst.
The traits of beauty which her excitement called forth, added piquancy to her natural charms, and inflamed Santa Anna’s wicked passions all the more. But more than any of them revenge. For now he knew how much the fair petitioner was interested in the man whose suit she had preferred. With a cold cynicism – which, however, cost him an effort – he rejoined:
