I walked over the ground, lately the arena of the enemy's camp, among
other tents that stood near. There were not many of them. Arbours
formed by the interlacing of branches, and thatched with reeds and
grass, had constituted the chief shelter of Santa Anna's soldiers.
His superior officers only had been provided with tents, of which not
more than a dozen were now standing.
Several of them I entered. They were not all empty, though their living
occupants had deserted them. Three or four I found tenanted by the
dead. Stretched upon _catres_, or lying upon the floor, were the bodies
of men whose uniforms showed them to have been officers of high rank.
One lay so near to the entrance of a tent, that the moonbeams, slanting
inward through the opening of the canvas, fell full upon his face. He
was a man of magnificent form, with a countenance that even in death
might be termed handsome. His complexion was a dark olive, his features
perfectly regular, with a coal-black moustache and chin-beard. His
dress was half civilian, half military, with insignia embroidered upon
the shoulder-straps, proclaiming him a general of division. His name I
learnt afterwards, Vasquez, one of the bravest of our foes, who had
gallantly held his position on the hill of El Telegrafo till the last
moment for retreating. A bullet through the groin terminated what might
otherwise have been a brilliant career; and he had been carried to his
tent only to die.
No attempt had been made to dress his wound. It was perhaps looked upon
as hopeless; and in the panic of retreat even an officer of rank is oft
neglected. Over the groin his trousers had been torn open, as if done
to examine the wound, and the sky-blue cloth, of which the garment was
composed, was saturated with blood, now dark and dry. Its salt odour
pervaded the atmosphere, and I was about returning outward; for,
attracted by the distinguished appearance of the dead body, I had
stepped inside the tent to examine it; when a singular, I might say a
startling, observation, caused me to remain where I was.
The corpse lay upon its back, the head about midway upon the floor of
the tent, with the feet protruding beyond the canvas on the outside, a
little to one side of the entrance. It was the feet, in fact, first
seen, that had drawn my attention; and the peculiar _chaussure_ which
they displayed caused me to stoop down and examine them. They were
encased in elegant russet boots--such as were worn in the time of the
second Charles, and now only seen upon the stage. A pair of bright
spurs buckled over them, sparkled in the moonlight.
Had I not looked inside at the body, to which this singular _chaussure_
belonged, I might have fancied a cavalier of the olden time asleep
within the tent; but the very oddness of the foot-gear influenced me to
examine the individual to whom it appertained.
Stepping up to the entrance, my eyes had fallen upon the handsome face;
but as my own shadow hindered me from thoroughly examining it, I had
gone inside to obtain a better view.
It was after I had completed the observations above detailed that I
became witness of the spectacle that startled me.
As I have said, I was on the point of returning out of the tent. To do
so it would be necessary for me to pass close to the corpse, in fact, to
step over it, as I had done on going inside. As I raised my foot to
effect this purpose, I fancied that the body moved!
In surprise I drew back my foot, and stood watching, not without a
feeling of fear.
The feeling was not diminished, but increased almost to the degree of
horror, when I became convinced that what I saw was no fancy--no optical
illusion. _The body had actually moved, and was still in motion_!
Had I not observed the motion, the change of posture would have
convinced me it was taking place: for the head, originally lying in the
middle of the tent, was now nearer its edge, and gradually, but surely,
approaching the circle of canvas!
All doubt would have been removed--had any existed--when I saw the
corpse give, or rather receive, a sudden jerk, which brought the head
close in to the canvas.
I could stay no longer inside that tent; and with a single bound I
carried myself clear of the entrance.
No sooner did I get outside, than I was relieved from the influence of
the supernatural. A perfectly natural--perhaps I should say unnatural--
cause divested the phenomenon of its mystery. A man was in the act of
stripping General Vasquez of his boots!
With shame I recognised the uniform of an American rifleman.
In justice to that uniform be it told, that the man was not an American,
but a worthless mongrel, half Jew, half German; who on more than one
occasion had received chastisement for strange crimes, and who
afterwards, in a future battle--as I have good reason to know--fired his
traitorous bullet at my own back.
"Laundrich! ruffian!" I cried. "Despoiling the dead!"
"Ach! tish only a Mexican--our enemish, captan."
"Scoundrel! desist from your unhallowed work, or I shall devote you to a
worse fate than his whose noble remains you are defiling. Off to your
quarters! Off, I say!"
The human wolf skulked away, unwillingly, and with an air of savage
chagrin.
I never came nearer slaying a fellow creature--not to accomplish the
act.
Better, perhaps, had I completed it on that occasion. It would have
spared me a severe shot-wound, afterwards received, with certain other
disagreeable _contretemps_, of which Johanna Laundrich was prime agent
and promoter.
Story 1, Chapter VIII.