"Who goes there?"
"_Amigos_! friends!" was the response.
"'Dvance, and gie the countersign!"
"_Senor centinela_! we are _medicos_--surgeon, you call--of the
ejercito--armee Mejicano."
"Ye're Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye're about then. What d'ye
want hyar?"
"We are medicos--doctor--_entiende usted_?"
"Doctors, ye say. Humph! if that's what ye be, ye mout be o' some use
hyar, I reckon. There's a good wheen o' yer sodgers gone under for want
o' docturin. F'r all that I can't let you pass 'ithout the countersign;
leastwise till I've called the corporal o' the guard."
The group, who stood in front of the faithful sentinel awaiting
permission to pass, was full under my eyes, as I turned my face towards
it. The persons comprising it numbered about a score of men, only one
of whom was in uniform. This individual wore a frock-coat of blue
broadcloth, very long in the skirt, with gilt buttons over the breast,
crimson edging, and a cord trimming of gold lace. His pantaloons were
of similar colour to the coat--in fact, of the same kind of cloth.
Instead of a military cap or shako he wore a black glaze hat, with broad
brim; while several minor articles of dress and equipment proclaimed a
costume half military, half civilian--such a style as might be seen in
any army during a campaign, but more especially in that of Mexico.
The other personages of the party were variously clad--some in half
military costumes, but most of them in plain clothes,--if any garments
worn in Mexico can be so qualified. Several of them, two-and-two, bore
stretchers between them; while others carried surgical instruments,
lint, and labelled phials--insignia that declared their calling. They
were the hospital staff, the _assistentes_ of the young officer who
preceded them, and who was evidently a surgeon belonging to the Mexican
army.
It was he who had accosted the sentry.
The appearance of this party on the field of battle needed no
explanation. No more did there need to be any ceremony as to their
introduction.
On seeing them, I shouted to the sentry to let them pass without waiting
for the arrival of that important functionary--the "corporal of the
guard."
As I arose to my feet, I was confronted by the Mexican _medico_, to
whose indifferent English I had been for some time listening.
"Senor Capitan," he said, after saluting me with a polite wave of the
hand, "I have been told that I may address you in my own language. In
it, and in the name of humanity, let me thank you for the kindness you
have shown to our wounded soldiers. In you, sir, we no longer recognise
an enemy."
"The trifling assistance I have rendered is scarcely deserving of
thanks. I fear that to some of the poor fellows who were its recipients
it has been of no avail. More than one of them must have succumbed
during the night."
"That reminds me, Senor Capitan, that I should not lose time. I carry,
as you perceive, a _safeguard_ from the American Commander-in-chief."
While speaking, he held out the document referred to, in order that I
might examine it.
"It is not necessary," I said; "you are of the medical staff; your
errand is your passport."
"Enough, Senor Capitan. I shall proceed to the accomplishment of my
duty. In the name of humanity and Mexico, once more I thank you!"
Saying this, he walked off with his followers towards that portion of
the field, where most of his wounded countrymen had miserably passed the
night.
In the style and personal appearance of this Mexican there was a
gracefulness peculiarly impressive. He was a man of not less than fifty
years of age, of dark complexion under snow-white hair, and with
features so finely outlined as to appear almost feminine. A pair of
large, liquid eyes, a voice soft and musical, small delicate hands, and
a graceful modesty of demeanour, bespoke him a person of refinement--in
short, a gentleman.
The fact of his speaking English, though not very fluently, being an
accomplishment rare among his countrymen, betokened intellectual
culture, perhaps foreign travel--an idea strengthened by his general
manner and bearing. There was something in his looks, moreover, that
led me to think he must be clever in his calling.
I bethought me of the invalid inside the tent. Calros might stand in
need of his skill.
I was about to summon him back, when the young girl, hurrying out,
anticipated my intention. She had overheard the dialogue between the
new-comer and myself, and, thinking only of her brother, had rushed
forth to claim the services of the _surgeon_.
"Oh, Senor," she cried, making the appeal to myself, "will you call him
back to--to see Calros?"
"I was about to do so," I replied. "He is coming!"
I had not even the merit of summoning the medics. On hearing her voice
he had stopped and turned round, his attendants imitating his example.
The eyes of all were concentrated on the Jarocha.
"Senorita," said the surgeon, stepping towards the tent and modestly
raising his sombrero as he spoke, "so fair a flower is not often found
growing upon the ensanguined field of battle. If I have overheard you
aright, it is your wish I should see some one who is wounded--some one
dear to you, no doubt?"
"My brother, sir."
"Ah! your brother," said the Mexican, regarding the girl with a look
that betokened a degree of surprise. "Where may I find him?"
"In the tent, senor. Calros, dear Calros! there is a medico, a real
surgeon, coming to see you."
And as the girl gave utterance to the words she stepped quickly inside
the marquee, followed by the surgeon himself.
Story 1, Chapter XII.