Who Florence Kearney was, and what his motive for becoming a
"filibuster," the reader shall be told without much tediousness of
detail.
Some six months before the encounter described, he had landed from a
Liverpool cotton ship on the Levee of New Orleans. A gentleman by birth
and a soldier-scholar by education, he had gone to the New World with
the design to complete his boyhood's training by a course of travel, and
prepare himself for the enacting the _metier_ of a man. That this
travel should be westward, over fresh untrodden fields, instead of along
the hackneyed highways of the European tourist, was partly due to the
counsels of a tutor--who had himself visited the New World--and partly
to his own natural inclinations.
In the course of his college studies he had read the romantic history of
Cortez's conquest, and his mind had become deeply imbued with the
picturesqueness of Mexican scenes; so that among the fancies of his
youthful life one of the pleasantest was that of some day visiting the
land of Anahuac, and its ancient capital, Tenochtitlan. After leaving
college the dream had grown into a determination, and was now in the act
of being realised. In New Orleans he was so far on his way. He came
thither expecting to obtain passage in a coasting vessel to some Mexican
seaport--Tampico or Vera Cruz.
Why he had not at once continued his journey thither was due to no
difficulty in finding such a vessel. There were schooners sailing every
week to either of the above ports that would have accommodated him, yet
still he lingered in New Orleans. His reason for thus delaying was one
far from uncommon--this being a lady with whom he had fallen in love.
At first the detention had been due to a more sensible cause. Not
speaking the Spanish language, which is also that of Mexico, he knew
that while travelling through the latter country he would have to go as
one dumb. In New Orleans he might easily obtain a teacher; and having
sought soon found one, in the person of Don Ignacio Valverde,--a refugee
Mexican gentleman, a victim of the tyrant Santa Anna, who, banished from
his country, had been for several years resident in the States as an
exile. And an exile in straitened circumstances, one of the hardest
conditions of life. Once, in his own country, a wealthy landowner, Don
Ignacio was now compelled to give lessons in Spanish to such stray
pupils as might chance to present themselves. Among the rest, by chance
came Florence Kearney, to whom he had commenced teaching it.
But while the latter was making himself master of the Andalusian tongue,
he also learnt to love one who spoke it as purely, and far more sweetly,
than Don Ignacio. This was Don Ignacio's daughter.
After parting with Cris Rock, the young Irishman advanced along the
Levee, his head bowed forward, with eyes to the ground, as if examining
the oyster-shells that thickly bestrewed the path; anon giving his
glance to the river, as though stirred by its majestic movement. But he
was thinking neither of the empty bivalves, nor the flow of the mighty
stream. Nor yet of the speech he had promised to make that same night
at the _rendezvous_ of filibusters. Instead he was reflecting upon that
affair of the heart, from which he had been for some time suffering.
To make known his feelings it is necessary to repeat what passed through
his mind after he had separated from the Texan.
"There's something odd in all this," soliloquised he, as he strode on.
"Here am I going to fight for a country I care nothing about, and
against one with which I have no cause of quarrel. On the contrary, I
have come four thousand miles to visit the latter, as a peaceful
friendly traveller. Now I propose making entry into it, sword in hand,
as an enemy and invader! The native land, too, of her who has taken
possession of my heart! Ah! therein lies the very reason: _I have not
got hers_. I fear--nay, I am certain of that, from what I saw this
morning. Bah! What's the use of thinking about it, or about her?
Luisa Valverde cares no more for me than the half-score of others--these
young Creole `bloods,' as they call themselves--who flit like
butterflies around her. She's a sweet flower from which all of them
wish to sip. Only one will succeed, and that's Carlos Santander. I
hate the very sight of the man. I believe him to be a cheat and a
scoundrel. No matter to her. The cheat she won't understand; and, if
report speak true of her country and race, the scoundrel would scarcely
qualify him either. Merciful heavens! to think I should love this
Mexican girl, warned as I've been about her countrywomen! 'Tis a
fascination, and the sooner I get away from it and her presence, the
better it may be for me. Now, this Texan business offers a chance of
escaping the peril. If I find she cares not for me, it will be a sort
of satisfaction to think that in fighting against her country I may in a
way humiliate herself. Ah, Texas! If you find in me a defender, it
will not be from any patriotic love of you, but to bury bitter thoughts
in oblivion."
The chain of his reflections, momentarily interrupted was after a time
continued: "My word," he exclaimed, "there's surely something ominous in
my encounter with this Cris Rock! Destiny seems to direct me. Here am
I scheming to escape from a thraldom of a siren's smiles, and, to do so,
ready to throw myself into the ranks of a filibustering band! On the
instant a friend is found--a patron who promises to make me their
leader! Shall I refuse the favour, which fortune herself seems to
offer? Why should I? It is fate, not chance; and this night at their
meeting I shall know whether it is meant in earnest. So, canvass your
best for me, Cris Rock; and I shall do my best to make a suitable
speech. If our united efforts prove successful, then Texas shall gain a
friend, and Luisa Valverde lose _one_ of her lovers."
At the conclusion of this speech--half boastful, half bitter--Florence
Kearney had reached the hotel where he was stopping--the celebrated
"Saint Charles," and entering its grand saloon, sat down to reflect
further on the step he was about to take.