THE SEÑOR STRICKLAND
Two-and-twenty years ago, I, Ignatio, visited a village in the State
of Tamaulipas, named Cumarvo, a beautiful place, half-hidden in pine
forests amongst the mountains. I came to this hamlet because a friend
of mine, one of the brethren of the Order of the Heart, wrote to me
saying that there was an Indian in the neighbourhood who had in his
possession an ancient Aztec scroll, which, being in picture-writing,
neither he nor anyone else could read.
This scroll had descended to the Indian through many generations, and
with it a tradition that it told of a very rich gold mine in the
mountains whereof the site was lost, which had been closed to save it
from the grip of Cortes, by the order of Guatemoc, my forefather, whom
the Spaniards murdered--may their souls be accursed!
Now, I had been taught the secret of the picture-writing by old
Antonio, my father’s friend, when first I was initiated into the
mysteries of the Heart, though it must die with me, for I believe that
at this hour there is no other man living who can read it.
This writing the Indian was willing to give up to me as Lord of the
Heart, and accordingly, having nothing better to do, I journeyed to
Cumarvo to study it. In this matter, as in many others, I was destined
to meet with disappointment, however--at any rate for a while; for, on
my arrival at the house of my friend, I heard that the Indian had died
of a sudden sickness, and that his son could not discover where the
scroll was hidden.
Another thing I heard also, namely, that a white man, an _Inglese_,
the first who ever visited these parts, had come to the village about
six months before, and was engaged in working some old silver mines on
behalf of a company, a task that he found difficult, for the Mexican
owners of land in the neighbourhood, being jealous of him and angry
because he paid his men a fair wage, were striving to prevent Indians
from labouring in his mine.
Now the natives of this place, from Monday morning to Saturday night,
were a gentle and industrious people, but they had this fault, that on
the Saturday night many of them were accustomed to become drunk on
_mescal_, the spirit that is distilled from the root of the aloe. Then
their natures were changed, and fierce quarrels would spring up
amongst them, for the most part about women, that ended often enough
in bloodshed.
It chanced that such a fray arose on the night of my arrival at
Cumarvo. On the morrow I saw the fruits of it as I walked down the
little street which was bordered by white, flat-roofed houses and
paved with cobble-stones, purposing to attend mass in the lime-washed
church, where the bell rang night and day to scare evil spirits back
to hell.
In the middle of the street, lying in the shade of a house, were two
dead men. A handsome Indian girl, with a sullen and unmoved
countenance, was engaged in winding a _serape_, or blanket, round one
of the bodies; but the other lay untended, certain stains upon the
clothing revealing the manner of its end. On a doorstep sat a third
man, much wounded about the head and face, while the barber of the
village, its only doctor, attempted to remove his hair with a pair of
blunt scissors, so that he might dress the cuts.
The scene was dreadful, but no one took much notice of it, for Indian
life is cheap, and in those days death by violence was even more
common in Mexico than it is now. On the opposite side of the street an
old woman chaffered with a passer-by about the price of her oranges,
while some children with shouts and laughter strove to lasso and drag
away a pig that haunted the place; and a girl on her way to mass
stepped over the uncovered body which lay so quiet in the shade, and,
recognising it as that of a friend, crossed herself as she hurried on.
“What is the cause of this, señor?” I asked of the barber.
“I think that I have the honour of addressing Don Ignatio,” the little
man answered, and, lifting his hands from their work, he made a sign
showing that he also was a member of our Brotherhood, though a humble
one.
“Ah, I thought so,” he went on as I gave the countersign; “we heard
that you were going to visit us, and I am glad of it, for I weary of
dressing wounds on Sundays, and perhaps you may be able to put a stop
to these fights. The woman was the cause of it, of course, señor;
these are not the first she has brought to their deaths,” and he
nodded at the girl who was wrapping the body in a blanket.
“You see, she was going to marry this man,” and he tapped the Indian
whose wounds he was dressing on the shoulder, “but she took up with
that one,” pointing to the nearest body, “whereon Number One here,
being drunk with _mescal_, laid wait for Number Two and stabbed him
dead. The girl who was with him ran for Number Three yonder, Number
Two’s brother, but Number One ambushed him, so he was killed also.
Then, hearing the noise, the village guard came up and cut down our
friend here with their _machetes_, but as you see, unfortunately, they
did not kill him.”
I heard, and anger took hold of me. Approaching the girl, I said:
“This is your doing, woman! Are you not afraid?”
[image: img_031.jpg
caption: ‘This is your doing, woman! Are you not afraid?’]
“What of it?” she answered, sullenly; “can I help it if I am pretty,
and men fight for me? Also, who are you who ask me whether I am
afraid?”
“Fool!” cried the barber from the doorstep; “do you dare to speak thus
to the Lord of the Heart?”
The girl started, and replied:
“Why not? Is he then my lord?”
“Listen, girl!” I said; “others besides these have died through you.”
“How do you know that?” she answered. “But what need to ask? If you
are the Lord of the Heart you have the evil eye, and can read secrets
without their being discovered to you.”
“It is you that have the evil eye, woman, like many another of your
sex!” I said. “Hear me, now: you will leave this place, and you will
never return to it, for if you do, you die! Also, remember that if
harm should come to any more men on your account, wherever you go I
shall know of it, and you will die there!”
“Whoever you are, you are not the Government, and have no right to
kill me,” she said, trying to hide the fear which crept into her dark
eyes.
“No, woman, I am not the Government; but among our people I am more
powerful than the Government. If you do not believe me, ask the doctor
yonder, and he will tell you that I should be obeyed, even by people
who had never seen me, where a troop of soldiers would be laughed at.
If I say that you are to die, you will die in this way or in that, for
my curse will be on you. Perhaps you may tumble over a precipice, or
you may take a fever, or be drowned in crossing a river, _quien
sabe_!”
“I know, lord, I know,” she whispered, shivering, for now she was
frightened. “Do not look so terribly at me; spare me this time for the
love of God! I did not mean to do it, but when men put their hearts
into a woman’s hand, how can she help squeezing them, especially if
she hates men? But I did not hate this one,” and she touched the cheek
of the dead Indian caressingly; “I really meant to marry him. It is
that fellow whom I hate,” pointing to her wounded lover, “and I hope
that he will be shot, else I think that I shall poison him.”
“You will not poison him, woman; and, though he deserves to die, you
are worse than he. Now begone, and remember my words!”
Bending down, she touched the corpse’s forehead with her lips, then,
rising, said:
“I kiss your feet, Lord of the Heart,” and went away without looking
behind her, nor was she seen again in that village.
Then, with a sigh, I also was turning to go, for it saddened me to
think that when drink got hold of them, a woman should have the power
to change these men, who were my brethren, into savage beasts
thirsting for each other’s blood.
“Ah!” I mused, “had it not been for that other woman who destroyed me
and my hope, by now I had begun to teach them better.”
At this moment, looking up, I chanced to see a man such as I had never
before beheld, standing by my side and gazing at me. Stories are told
of how men and women, looking on each other for the first time, in
certain cases are filled with a strange passion of love, of which,
come what may, they can not again be rid.
Among many misfortunes, thanks be to my guardian angels, this fate has
never overtaken me, yet at that moment I felt something that was akin
to it--not love, indeed, but a great sense of friendship and sympathy
for and with this man, which, mastering me then, is still growing to
this hour, though its object has for many years been dead.
Perhaps it was the contrast between us that attracted me so much at
first, since human beings are ever drawn towards their opposites in
nature and appearance. I, as you, my friend, for whom I write this
history, will remember, although you have only known me in my age, am
tall, thin, and sallow, like all my race, with a sad expression
reflecting the heart within, and melancholy eyes.
Very different were the mind and appearance of James Strickland, the
Englishman. He was a fine man, over thirty years of age, short in
proportion to his width, though somewhat spare in frame and slender in
limb. His features were as clearly cut as those of an ancient god upon
a marble wall; his eyes were blue as the sea, and, though just now
they were troubled at the sight of death, merry like the eyes of a
boy; his curling hair--for he had removed his hat in the presence of
the dead--was yellow as mimosa bloom, darkening almost to red in the
short beard and about the ears, where the weather had caught it; and
beneath his shirt, which was open at the neck, his skin showed white
like milk. For the rest, his hands were long and delicate,
notwithstanding the hard work of which they bore traces; his glance
was quick, and his smile the most pleasant that ever I had seen.
“Your pardon, señor,” said this _Inglese_, in good Spanish, bowing to
me as he spoke, “but unwittingly I have overheard some of your talk
with yonder woman, and I cannot understand how it comes about that
you, a stranger, have so much authority over her. I wish that you
would explain it to me in order that I might learn how to put a stop
to such murders. These dead men were two of my best workmen, and I do
not know where I shall look to replace them.”
“I cannot explain it, señor,” I answered, returning his bow, “further
than to say that I have a certain rank among the Indians, on account
of which they reverence me. Still, though I have no right to ask it of
a stranger, I pray that you will forget any words of mine which may
chance to have reached your ears, since of such authority the
Government is jealous.”
“By all means, señor; they are already forgotten. Well, _adios_, this
sight is not so pleasant that I wish to study it,” and replacing his
hat upon his head, he passed on.
Although my journey proved to be in vain, seeing that the scroll I
came to read had vanished, I lingered in the village of Cumarvo,
alleging as the reason of my stay a hope that it might be discovered,
but really, as I believe, because I desired to become friendly with
this white man.
As it chanced, an opportunity was soon given me to do him a signal
service. I have stated that there dwelt men of position in this place,
Mexicans who were jealous of the Englishman, and these people stirred
up some discontented miners in his employ to make a plot to murder
him, saying that, if they did so, they would win a great treasure
which he kept hidden in his house.
This plot came to my ears through one of the Brotherhood, and I
determined to frustrate it, to which end I collected together twenty
good men and true, and, arming them with guns, bade them be silent
about the matter, above all to the _Inglese_, whom I did not wish to
alarm.
The plan of the murderers was at the hour of dawn to attack the house
where the Señor Strickland slept with four or five servants only, and
to put all within its walls to death. Accordingly, about one o’clock
on the night fixed, I despatched my men by twos and threes,
instructing them to go round the hills at the back of the house, and,
creeping into the garden, to hide themselves there among the trees
till I appeared.
An hour later I followed them myself without being observed by the
spies of the attacking party, for rain fell and the night was very
dark. Arriving in the garden, I collected my men, and placed them in
ambush under a low wall commanding the street, up which I knew the
murderers must come. Here we waited patiently till the cocks crew and
the dawn began to break in the east.
Presently we heard a stir in the village beneath, as of men marching,
and in the gathering light we saw the murderers creeping stealthily up
the street to the number of fifty or more. So great was their fear of
the Englishman, that they thought it safer to bring many men to kill
him, also each of the villains desired that his neighbour should be a
sharer in the crime.
“Will you not wake up the _Inglese_?” asked the man next to me.
“No,” I answered, “it will be time enough to wake him when the affair
is settled. Let none of you fire till I give the word.”
Now, the brigands in the street below,--men without shame,--after
waiting a little time for the light to grow stronger, advanced toward
the gate, looking like a procession of monks, for the air was chilly
and each of them wore his _serape_ wrapped about his head. In their
hands they carried rifles and drawn _machetes_.
Within ten paces of the gate they paused for a minute to consult, and
I heard their leader, a Mexican, direct half of them to creep round to
the back of the house so as to cut off all escape. Then I whistled,
which was the signal agreed upon, at the same time covering the
Mexican with my rifle. Almost before the sound had left my lips, there
followed a report of twenty guns, and some fifteen or sixteen of the
enemy were stretched upon the ground.
For a moment they wavered, and I thought that the rest of them were
going to fly, but this they dared not do, for they knew that they had
been seen; therefore they rushed at the wall with a yell, firing as
they came. As they climbed over it we met them with pistol shots and
_machetes_, and for a few minutes the affair was sharp, for they were
desperate, and outnumbered us.
Still they lost many men in scaling the wall and forcing the gate, and
with the exception of fourteen who fled, and were for the most part
caught afterwards, the rest of them we finished amongst the flowers
and vegetables of the garden. Just as all was over, the Englishman,
who was a sound sleeper, appeared yawning, dressed in white, and
holding a pistol in his hand.
“What is this noise?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, “and why are you
people fighting in my garden? Go away, all of you, or I shall shoot at
you.”
“I trust,” I said, bowing, “that the señor will pardon us for
disturbing him in his slumber, but this matter could not be settled
without some noise. May I offer the señor my _serape_? The air is
chilly, and he will catch cold in that dress.”
“Thank you,” he said, putting on the _serape_. “And now perhaps you
will explain why you come to spoil my garden by making a battle-field
of it.”
Then I told him, and was astonished to see that as I went on he grew
very angry.
“I suppose that I must thank you, gentlemen, for saving my life,” he
said at last, “though I never asked you to do it. But, all the same, I
think it shameless that you should have had this fight in my own
garden, without giving me the opportunity of sharing it. _Caramba_! am
I a little girl that I should be treated in such a way?” And of a
sudden he burst out laughing and shook me by the hand.
That day, when all the trouble was over, and the place had been made
tidy, the Señor Strickland sent a man to ask if I would do him the
pleasure to dine with him. I accepted, and as we sat smoking after
dinner, having talked of the fight till we were tired of it, he spoke
thus to me:
“Don Ignatio, I owe you my life, and, believe me, I am grateful, for I
do not see why you should have risked so much for a foreign stranger.”
“I did it because I like you, señor,” I answered, “also because it is
very pleasant to catch the wicked in their own toils. Those who
perished this morning were villains, every one of them. They came in
the hope of plunder, for such ‘men without shame’ will murder human
beings for five dollars a head; but they were set on by others who
hate you because you treat your Indian workmen fairly, and also
because they do not wish foreigners here to compete with them, and
think that you are but the first bird of the flock. Therefore they
thought that it would be good policy to kill you so as to frighten
away others who might follow. However, that danger has gone by, and
you need have no more fear, for they have learnt a lesson which they
will not forget.”
“So much the better then,” he answered, “for I have troubles enough to
deal with here, without being bothered to protect my life against such
contemptible vermin. And now, Don Ignatio, I hardly like to ask you,
and I daresay that you will think the offer beneath contempt, but are
you willing to accept an engagement? I am sadly in need of a
sub-manager, one who could control the Indians, and to such a man I am
prepared to pay a hundred dollars a month; the funds of the company I
represent will not allow me to offer more.”
I thought for a while and answered:
“Señor, the money is not enough to tempt me, though it will serve to
buy food, lodging, and cigars, but I accept your offer for the same
reason that I fought your battles this morning, because I like you,
and will gladly do my best to serve you and your interests. Still, I
must warn you that, for aught I know, I may have to leave your service
at short notice, for my time is not altogether my own. I also am the
servant of a great company, señor, and though now I am on leave, as
it were, and have been for these many years, I may be required at any
moment.”
Thus it was, then, that I entered the service of the Señor James
Strickland, or rather of his company, in which I continued for
something more than a year, working very hard, for the señor did not
spare either me or himself. But as the records of those months of
fruitless labour could have little interest for you, my friend,
instead of writing of them, I will tell you in few words what was the
history of this Englishman as he told it to me.
He was of noble blood, as might be seen in his face, for he had a
right to be addressed as “honourable,” which it would seem means more
in England than it does here. Nevertheless, his father was a priest of
the heretic church and quite poor, though, how this came about, you,
being an Englishman, will understand better than I, seeing that in
most countries it is the privilege of nobles to enrich themselves at
the expense of others of less rank.
At any rate, when James Strickland’s father died, his son, who was
then a lad of twenty, found that he possessed in the world no more
than five thousand dollars. This sum, being of adventurous mind and
sanguine temperament, he invested in a ranch in Texas, where he
endured much danger and hardship, and lost all his money.
After this experience, having nothing to live on and no friends, he
was obliged to labour with his hands like a peon, and this he did in
many ways. He broke horses, he herded cattle; once, even, for two
months he sank so low--it makes me angry to write of it--as to be
forced to wait upon the guests in an inn at Panama.
Thence he drifted to Nicaragua, and became mixed up in mining
ventures, and when first I met him he had been a miner for ten years.
Most of this time he spent managing a mine for an American, in the
Chontales country, on the frontier of Honduras, where the fever is so
bad that few white men can live. Here it was that he learned to speak
Spanish and the Indian or Maya tongue. At length, after an attack of
fever which nearly killed him, he left Honduras, and came to Mexico,
where he accepted the management of this silver mine at Cumarvo.
Hitherto it had been worked by a Mexican on behalf of its owners, who
dismissed the rogue for stealing the ore and selling it.
This mine, though very rich, was hard to deal with profitably because
of the water gathered in it, and all the months that the Señor
Strickland had been its captain he was employed in driving a tunnel
upwards from a lower level in the cliff, in order to drain the
workings. Shortly after I came into his service this tunnel was
finished, for now I was able to obtain plenty of labour, which before
he had lacked, and we began to bring to bank ore running as high as
two hundred ounces to the ton, so that for some months all went well.
Then of a sudden the ore body dipped straight downward, as though it
had been bent when hot, and we followed it till the water increased so
much that we were unable to carry it out, for in those days there were
no steam pumps in Mexico, such as are now used for the drying of
mines. First we tried to strike another vein, but without success;
then we attempted to pierce a second drainage tunnel at a still lower
level, but, after more than three months’ labour, the rock became so
hard that we were obliged to abandon the task.
Now there was nothing to be done except to stop work at the tunnel,
and report the matter by letter to the owners of the mine, employing
ourselves meanwhile in the smelting of such ore as we had stacked.
This, indeed, we needed to do in order to pay wages with the silver,
seeing that after the first few months the owners ceased to remit us
money.
One evening, on returning from the smelting-works to the house, I
found the Señor Strickland, his chin resting on his hand and an
unlighted cigar in his mouth, seated at a table, on which lay an open
letter. All through our misfortunes and heavy labour he had never lost
heart, or forgotten to smile and be merry, but now he looked sad as a
man who has just buried his mother, and I asked him what evil thing
had happened.
“Nothing particular, Ignatio,” he answered; “but listen here.” And he
read the letter aloud.
It was from one of the owners of the mine, and this was the purport of
it: that the shaft had become choked with water because of the
incompetence and neglect of the señor; that they, the owners, hereby
dismissed him summarily, refusing to pay him the salary due; and,
lastly, that they held him responsible in his own person for such
money as they had lost.
“Surely,” I cried in wrath, when he had finished, “this letter was
written by a man without shame, and I pray that he may find his grave
in the stomachs of hogs and vultures!” for I forgot myself in my
indignation against those that could speak thus of the señor, who had
slaved day and night in their service, giving himself no rest.
“Do not trouble, Ignatio,” he said, with a little smile, “it is the
way of the world. I have failed, and must take the consequences. Had I
succeeded, there would have been a different story. Still I think
that, if ever I meet this man again, I will kick him for telling lies
about me. Do you know, Ignatio, that, with the exception of one
thousand dollars which remain to my credit in Mexico, I have spent all
my own money that I had saved upon this mine, and of that thousand
dollars, eight hundred are due to you for back pay, so, whatever trade
I take to next, I shall not begin as a rich man.”
“Be silent, I beg of you, señor,” I answered, “for such words make my
ears burn. What! am I also a thief that I should rob you, you who have
already been plucked like a fowl for the good of others? Insult me
once more by such thoughts and I will never pardon you.”
And I left the house to calm myself by walking among the mountains,
little knowing what I should hear before I entered it again.