Despite the chagrin I felt at being literally _hors de combat_, I could
not at this moment avoid surrendering myself to a feeling of exultation.
Both my chagrin and exultation were suddenly checked. A spectacle was
before my eyes that inspired me with a vivid hope--a dream of glory.
Like a string of white ants descending the side of one of their steepest
"hills," I perceived a long line moving down the face of the opposite
cliff. In the distance--a mile or more--they looked no larger than
_termites_. Like them, too, they were of whitish colour. For all that,
I knew they were men--soldiers in the cheap cotton uniforms of the
Mexican infantry.
Without any strain upon my powers of ratiocination, I divined that they
were fugitives from the field above, who, in their panic, had retreated
over the precipice--anywhere that promised to separate them from their
victorious foemen.
The moving line was not straight up and down the cliff, but zigzagged
along its face. I could tell there was a path.
At its lower end, and already down near the "plan" of the river (Plan
del Rio), I perceived a group of men, dressed in dark uniforms. There
were points on the more sombre background of their vestments that kept
constantly scintillating in the sun. These were gold or gilt buttons,
epaulettes, steel scabbards of sabres, or bands of lace.
It was easy to tell that the individuals thus adorned were officers,
notwithstanding the fact that, as officers, they were at the _wrong_ end
of the retreating line.
I carried a lorgnette, which I had already taken out of its case. I
directed it towards the opposite side of the ravine, upon the dark head
of that huge caterpillar sinuously descending the cliff.
I could distinguish the individuals of this group. One was receiving
attentions from the rest--even assistance. The Mexican Caesar was
easily recognised. His halting gait, as he descended the sloping path,
or swung himself from, ledge to ledge, betrayed the cork leg of _El
Cojo_.
A mule stood ready saddled at the bottom of the precipice. I saw Santa
Anna descend and approach it. I saw him, aided by others, mount in the
saddle. I saw him ride off, followed by a disordered crowd of
frightened fugitives, who, on reaching the chapparal, took to their
heels with the instinct of _sauve qui peut_.
I looked up the valley of the river. It was enclosed by precipitous
"bluffs," as far as the eye could reach; but on that side where we had
planted our battery--scarce a mile above our position--a line of black
heavy timber told me there was a lateral ravine leading outwards in the
direction of Orizava. The retreating troops of Santa Anna must either
find exit by this ravine, keep on up the stream, or risk running back
into the teeth of their pursuers on the opposite side of the river.
I hurried back to the battery, and reported what I had seen. I could
have made my colonel a general--a hero--had he been of the right stuff.
"'Tis an easy game, colonel; we have only to intercept them at the head
of yonder dark line of timber. We can be there before them!"
"Nonsense, captain! We have orders to guard this battery. We must not
leave it."
"May I take my own men?"
"No! not a man must be taken away from the guns."
"Give me fifty!"
"I cannot spare them."
"Give me twenty; I shall bring Santa Anna back here in less than an
hour."
"Impossible! There are thousands with him. We shall be lucky if they
don't turn this way. There are only three hundred of us, and there must
be over a thousand of them."
"You refuse to give me twenty men?"
"I can't spare a man. We may need them all, and more."
"I shall go alone."
I was half mad. The glory that might have been so easily won was placed
beyond my reach by this overcautious imbecile.
I was almost foolish enough to have flung myself over the cliff, or
rushed alone into the midst of the retreating foes.
I left the battery and walked slowly away out of sight of my superior.
I continued along the counterscarp of the cliff, until I had reached the
edge of the lateral ravine leading out from the river valley. I
crouched behind the thick tussocks of the zamias. I saw the retreating
tyrant, mounted on his mule, ride past, almost within range of my rifle
bullet! I saw a thousand men crowding closely after, so utterly routed
and demoralised that nothing could have induced them to stand another
shot. I was convinced that my original idea was in perfect
correspondence with the truth, and that with the help of a score of
determined men I could have made prisoners of the whole "ruck."
Instead of this triumph, my only achievement in the battle of Cerro
Gordo was to call my colonel a coward, for which I was afterwards
confined to close quarters, and only recovered the right to range abroad
on the eve of a subsequent battle, when it was thought that my sword
might be of more service than my condemnation by court-martial.
Of such a nature were my thoughts as I lay under canvas on the field of
Cerro Gordo on the night succeeding the battle.
"_Agua! por amor Dios, agua--aguita_!"
These words reaching my ear, and now a second time pronounced, broke in
upon the train of my reflections.
They were not the only sounds disturbing the tranquillity of that calm
tropic night. From other parts of the field, though in a different
direction and more distant, I could hear many voices speaking in a
similar strain, in tones of agonised appeal, low mutterings, mingled
with moanings, where some mutilated foeman was struggling in the throes
of death, and vainly calling for help that came not.
On that night, from the field of Cerro Gordo, many a soul soared upward
to eternity--many a brave man went to sleep with unclosed eyes, a sleep
from which he was never more to awaken.
In what remained of twilight after my arrival on the ground, I had
visited all the wounded within the immediate vicinity of my post--all
that I could find--for the field of battle was in reality a wood, or
rather a thicket; and no doubt there were many who escaped my
observation.
I had done what little was in the power of myself and a score of
companions--soldiers of my corps--to alleviate the distress of the
sufferers: for, although they were our enemies, we had not the slightest
feeling of hostility towards them. There had been such in the morning,
but it was gone ere the going down of the sun, leaving only compassion
in its place.
Yielding simply to the instincts of humanity, I had done my best in
binding up wounds, many of them that I knew to be mortal; and only when
worn out by fatigue, absolutely "done up," had I sought a tent, under
the shelter of which it was necessary I should pass the night.
It was after a long spell of sleep, extending into the mid-hours of the
night, that I was awakened from my slumbers, and gave way to the
reflections above detailed. It was then that I heard that earnest call
for water; it was then I heard the more distant voices, and mingled with
them the howling bark of the coyote, and the far more terrible baying of
the large Mexican wolf. In concert with such choristers, no wonder the
human voices were uttered in tones especially earnest and lugubrious.
"_Agua! par amor Dios, agua, aguita_!"
For the third time I listened to this piteous appeal. It surprised me a
little. I thought I had placed a vessel of water within the reach of
every one of the wounded wretches who lay near my tent. Had this
individual been overlooked?
Perhaps he had drunk what had been left him, and thirsted for more! In
any case, the earnest accents in which the solicitation was repeated,
told me that he was thirsting with a thirst that tortured him.
I waited for another, the fourth repetition of the melancholy cry. Once
more I heard it.
This time I had listened with more attention. I could perceive in the
pronunciation a certain provincialism, which proclaimed the speaker a
peasant, but one of a special class. The _por amor Dios_, instead of
being drawled out in the whine of the regular alms-asker, was short and
slurred. It fell upon the ear as if the _a_ in _amor_ was omitted, and
also the initial letter in _aguita_. The phrase ran:--"_Agua! por 'mor
Dios, 'gua, aguita_!"
I recognised in those abbreviations the _patois_ of a peculiar people,
the denizens of the coast of Vera Cruz, and the _tierra caliente_--the
_Jarochos_.
The sufferer did not appear to be at any great distance from my tent--
perhaps a hundred paces, or two hundred at most. I could no longer lend
a deaf ear to his outcries.
I started up from my _catre_--a camp-bedstead, which my tent contained--
groped, and found my canteen, not forgetting the brandy-flask, and,
sallying forth into the night, commenced making my way towards the spot
where I might expect to find the utterer of the earnest appeal.
Story 1, Chapter III.