The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

“There they are, Señor Colonel! As you see, I’ve had them coupled according to orders. What a well-matched pair!” he added, ironically, as his eyes fell upon Cris Rock and the hunchback. “Ay Dios! It’s a sight to draw laughter from the most sober-sided recluse that ever lodged within these walls. Ha! ha! ha!”

It drew this from Carlos Santander; who, relishing the jest, joined in the “ha! ha!” till the old convent rang with their coarse ribaldry.

Chapter Twelve

“Do your darndest.”

During all this time – only a few seconds it was – the four men within the cell preserved silence; the dwarf, as the door alone was drawn open, having said to the gaol-governor: “Buenas Dias Excellenza! you’re coming to set us free, aren’t you?”

A mere bit of jocular bravado; for, as might be supposed, the deformed wretch could have little hope of deliverance, save by the gallows, to which he had actually been condemned. A creature of indomitable pluck, however, this had not so far frightened him as to hinder jesting – a habit to which he was greatly given. Besides, he did not believe he was going to the garota. Murderer though he was, he might expect pardon, could he only find money sufficient to pay the price, and satisfy the conscience of those who had him in keeping.

His question was neither answered nor himself taken notice of; the attention of those outside being now directed upon the other occupants of the cell. Of these only two had their faces so that they could be seen. The third, who was the reputed robber, kept his turned towards the wall, the opened door being behind his back; and this attitude he preserved, not being called upon to change it till Santander had closed his conversation with Cris Rock and Kearney. He had opened it in a jaunty, jeering tone, saying —

“Well, my brave Filibusters! Is this where you are? Caspita! In a queer place and queer company, too! Not so nice, Señor Don Florencio, as that you used to keep in the Crescent City. And you, my Texan Colossus! I take it you don’t find the atmosphere of the Acordada quite so pleasant as the fresh breezes of prairie-land, eh?”

He paused, as if to note the effect of his irony; then continued —

“So this is the ending of the grand Mier Expedition, with the further invasion of Mexico! Well, you’ve found your way to its capital, anyhow, if you haven’t fought it. And now you’re here, what do you expect, pray?”

“Not much o’ good from sich a scoundrel as you,” responded Rock, in a tone of reckless defiance.

“What! No good from me! An old acquaintance – friend, I ought rather to call myself, after the little scene that passed between us on the shores of Pontchartrain. Come, gentlemen! Being here among strangers you should think yourselves fortunate in finding an old comrade of the filibustering band; one owing you so many obligations. Ah! well; having the opportunity now, I shall try my best to wipe out the indebtedness.”

“You kin do your darndest,” rejoined Rock in the same sullen tone. “We don’t look for marcy at your hands nosomever. It ain’t in ye; an if ’t war, Cris Rock ’ud scorn to claim it. So ye may do yur crowing on a dunghill, whar there be cocks like to be scared at it. Thar ain’t neery one o’ that sort hyar.”

Santander was taken aback by this unlooked-for rebuff. He had come to the Acordada to indulge in the luxury of a little vapouring over his fallen foes, whom he knew to be there, having been informed of all that had befallen them from Mier up to Mexico. He expected to find them cowed, and eager to crave life from him; which he would no more have granted than to a brace of dogs that had bitten him. But so far from showing any fear, both prisoners looked a little defiant; the Texan with the air of a caged wolf seeming ready to tear him if he showed but a step over the threshold of the cell.

“Oh! very well,” he returned, making light of what Rock had said. “If you won’t accept favours from an old, and, as you know, tried friend, I must leave you so without them. But,” he added, addressing himself more directly to Kearney:

“You, Señor Irlandes – surely you won’t be so unreasonable?”

“Carlos Santander,” said the young Irishman, looking his ci-devant adversary full in the face, “as I proved you not worth thrusting with my sword, I now pronounce you not worth words – even to call you coward, – though that you are from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. Not even brave when your body is encased in armour. Dastard! I defy you.”

Though manifestly stung by the reminder, Santander preserved his coolness. He had this, if not courage – at least a knack of feigning it. But again foiled in the attempt to humble the enemy, and, moreover, dreading exposure in the eyes of the gaol-governor – an old militario– should the story of the steel shirt come out in the conversation, he desisted questioning the Tejanos. Luckily for him none of the others there understood English – the language he and the Texans had used in their brief, but sharp exchange of words. Now addressing himself to the governor, he said —

“As you perceive, Señor Don Pedro, these two gentlemen are old acquaintances of mine, whose present unfortunate position I regret, and would gladly relieve. Alas! I fear the law will take its course.”

At which commiserating remark Don Pedro smiled grimly; well aware of the sort of interest Colonel Santander took in the pair of prisoners committed to his care. For the order so to dispose of them he knew to have come from Santander himself! It was not his place, nor was he the kind of man to inquire into motives; especially when these concerned his superiors. Santander was an officer on the staff of the Dictator, besides being a favourite at Court. The gaol-governor knew it, and was subservient. Had he been commanded to secretly strangle the two men thus specially placed in his charge, or administer poison to them, he would have done it without pity or protest. The cruel tyrant who had made him governor of the Acordada knew his man, and had already, as rumour said, with history to confirm it, more than once availed himself of this means to get rid of enemies, personal or political.

During all this interlude the robber had maintained his position and silence, his face turned to the blank wall of the cloister, his back upon all the others. What his motive for this was neither of the Texans could tell; and in all likelihood Santander knew not himself any more who the man was. But his behaviour, from its very strangeness, courted inquiry; and seemingly struck with it, the staff-colonel, addressing himself to the gaol-governor, said —

“By the way, Don Pedro, who is your prisoner, who makes the fourth in this curious quartette? He seems shy about showing his face, which would argue it an ugly one like my own.”

A bit of badinage in which Carlos Santander oft indulged. He knew that he was anything but ill-favoured as far as face went.

“Only a gentleman of the road —un salteador” responded the governor.

“An interesting sort of individual then,” said Santander. “Let me scan his countenance, and see whether it be of the true brigand type – a Mazaroni or Diavolo.”

So saying, he stepped inside the cell, and passed on till he could see over the robber’s shoulder, who now slightly turning his head, faced towards him. Not a word was exchanged between the two, but from the looks it was clear they were old acquaintances, Santander starting as he recognised the other; while his glance betrayed a hostility strong and fierce as that felt for either Florence Kearney or the Texan. A slight exclamation, involuntary, but telling of anger, was all that passed his lips as his eyes met a pair of other eyes which seemed to pierce his very heart.

He stayed not for more; but turning upon his heel, made direct for the door. Not to reach it, however, without interruption. In his hurry to be gone, he stumbled over the legs of the Texan, that stretched across the cell, nearly from side to side. Angered by the obstruction, he gave them a spiteful kick, then passed on outward. By good fortune fast and far out of reach, otherwise Cris Rock, who sprang to his feet, and on for the entrance, jerking the dwarf after, would in all probability there and then have taken his life.

As it was, the gaol-governor, seeing the danger, suddenly shut the cloister door, so saving it.

“Jest as I’ve been tellin’ ye all along, Cap,” coolly remarked Rock, as the slammed door ceased to make resonance; “we shed ha’ hanged the skunk, or shot him thar an’ then on the Shell Road. ’Twar a foolish thing lettin’ him out o’ that ditch when I had him in it. Darn the luck o’ my not drownin’ him outright! We’re like to sup sorrow for it now.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Exiles Returned

Of the dramatis personae of our tale, already known to our reader, Carlos Santander, Florence Kearney, and Cris Rock were not the only ones who had shifted residence from the City of New Orleans to that of Mexico. Within the months intervening two others had done the same – these Don Ignacio Valverde and his daughter. The banished exile had not only returned to his native land, but his property had been restored to him, and himself reinstated in the favour of the Dictator.

More still, he had now higher rank than ever before; since he had been appointed a Minister of State.

For the first upward step on this progressive ladder of prosperity Don Ignacio owed all to Carlos Santander. The handsome aide-de-camp, having the ear of his chief, found little difficulty in getting the ban removed, with leave given the refugee – criminal only in a political sense – to come back to his country.

The motive will easily be guessed. Nothing of either friendship or humanity actuated Santander. Alone the passion of love; which had to do not with Don Ignacio – but his daughter. In New Orleans he himself dared no longer live, and so could no more see Luisa Valverde there. Purely personal then; a selfish love, such as he could feel, was the motive for his intercession with the political chief of Mexico to pardon the political criminal. But if he had been the means of restoring Don Ignacio to his country, that was all. True, there was the restitution of the exile’s estates, but this followed as a consequence on reinstatement in his political rights. The after honours and emoluments – with the appointment to a seat in the Cabinet – came from the Chief of the State, Santa Anna himself. And his motive for thus favouring a man who had lately, and for long, been his political foe was precisely the same as that which actuated Carlos Santander. The Dictator of Mexico, as famed for his gallantries in love as his gallantry in war – and indeed somewhat more – had looked upon Luisa Valverde, and “saw that she was fair.”

For Don Ignacio himself, as the recipient of these favours, much may be said in extenuation. Banishment from one’s native land, with loss of property, and separation from friends as from best society; condemned to live in another land, where all these advantages are unattainable, amidst a companionship uncongenial; add to this the necessity of work, whether mental or physical toil, to support life – the res augustae domi; sum up all these, and you have the history of Don Ignacio Valverde during his residence in New Orleans. He bore all patiently and bravely, as man could and should. For all he was willing – and it cannot be wondered at that he was – when the day came, and a letter reached him bearing the State seal of the Mexican Republic – for its insignia were yet unchanged – to say that he had received pardon, and could return home.

He knew the man who had procured it for him – Carlos Santander – and had reason to suspect something of the motive. But the mouth of a gift horse must not be too narrowly examined; and Santander, ever since that night when he behaved so rudely in Don Ignacio’s house, had been chary in showing his face. In point of fact, he had made but one more visit to the Callé de Casa Calvo here, presenting himself several days after the duel with a patch of court plaister on his cheek, and his arm in a sling. An invalid, interesting from the cause which made him an invalid, he gave his own account of it, knowing there was but little danger of its being contradicted; Duperon’s temper, he understood, with that of the French doctor, securing silence. The others were all G.T.T. (gone to Texas), the hack-drivers, as he had taken pains to assure himself. No fear, therefore, of what he alleged getting denial or being called in question.

It was to the effect that he had fought Florence Kearney, and given more and worse wounds than he himself had received – enough of them, and sufficiently dangerous, to make it likely that his adversary would not long survive.

He did not say this to Luisa Valverde – only to her father. When she heard it second hand, it came nigh killing her. But then the informant had gone away – perhaps luckily for himself – and could not further be questioned. When met again in Mexico, months after, he told the same tale. He had no doubt, however, that his duelling adversary, so terribly gashed as to be in danger of dying, still lived. For an American paper which gave an account of the battle of Mier, had spoken of Captain Kearney in eulogistic terms, while not giving his name in the death list; this Santander had read. The presumption, therefore, was of Kearney being among the survivors.

Thus stood things in the city of Mexico at the time the Mier prisoners entered it, as relates to the persons who have so far found place in our story – Carlos Santander, a colonel on the staff of the Dictator; Don Ignacio Valverde, a Minister of State; his daughter, a reigning belle of society, with no aspirations therefor, but solely on account of her beauty; Florence Kearney, late Captain of the Texan filibusters, with Cris Rock, guide, scout, and general skirmisher of the same – these last shut up in a loathsome prison, one linked leg to leg with a robber, the other sharing the chain of a murderer, alike crooked in soul as in body!

That for the Texan prisoners there was yet greater degradation in store – one of them, Kearney, was made aware the moment after the gaol-governor had so unceremoniously shut the door of their cell. The teaching of Don Ignacio in New Orleans had not been thrown away upon him; and this, with the practice since accruing through conversation with the soldiers of their escort, had made him almost a master of the Spanish tongue.

Carlos Santander either did not think of this, or supposed the cloister door too thick to permit of speech in the ordinary tone passing through it. It did, notwithstanding; what he said outside to the governor reaching the Irishman’s ear, and giving him a yet closer clue to that hitherto enigma – the why he and Cris Rock had been cast into a common gaol, among the veriest and vilest of malefactors.

The words of Santander were —

“As you see, Señor Don Pedro, the two Tejanos are old acquaintances of mine. I met them not in Texas, but the United States – New Orleans – where we had certain relations; I need not particularise you. Only to say that both the gentlemen left me very much in their debt; and I now wish, above all things, to wipe out the score. I hope I may count upon you to help me!”

There could be no mistaking what he meant. Anything but a repayal of friendly services, in the way of gratitude; instead, an appeal to the gaol-governor to assist him in some scheme of vengeance. So the latter understood it, as evinced by his rejoinder —

“Of course you can, Señor Colonel. Only say what you wish done. Your commands are sufficient authority for me.”

“Well,” said Santander, after an interval apparently spent in considering, “as a first step, I wish you to give these gentlemen an airing in the street; not alone the Tejanos, but all four.”

“Caspita!” exclaimed the governor, with a look of feigned surprise. “They ought to be thankful for that.”

“They won’t, however. Not likely; seeing their company, and the occupation I want them put at.”

“Which is?”