“THE HACIENDA”
Returning to the place where we had eaten, we found the _alcalde_
talking with the sailors as to their plans. On seeing us the boatswain
advanced, and said that, if it was our pleasure, he and his companions
proposed to rest for a few days at the neighbouring _rancho_ and then
to row the boat along the coast to Campeche, which they hoped in
favourable weather to reach in sixty hours, adding that he trusted we
would accompany them.
I answered that we wished for no more of the sea at present, and that
we intended to pursue our journey to the town of Potrerillo, where we
could refit before undertaking an expedition to the ruined cities of
Yucatan. The boatswain said it was well, though he was sorry that they
could not escort us so far, as it was their duty to report the loss of
the ship to its owner, who lived at Campeche.
When we heard this the señor unbuckled the belt of money, which he
wore about his waist, and, pouring out half a handful of gold pieces,
he begged the boatswain to accept of them for division between himself
and his companions. All this while Don José was sitting close to us,
watching everything that passed, and I saw his eyes brighten at the
sight of the belt of gold.
“You are fortunate to have saved so much,” he said, speaking for the
first time. “All that I had has gone down with the ship, yes, three
thousand dollars or more.”
“You should have followed our example,” answered the señor; “we
divided our cash between the three of us and secured it upon our
persons, though perhaps you were wise after all, since such a weight
of gold might have been awkward if, like you, we had been called upon
to swim. By the way, señor, what are _your_ plans?”
“If you will allow me,” answered the Mexican, “I will walk with you
towards Potrerillo, for my home lies on that road. Would you be
offended, señor, if, on behalf of my father, I ventured to offer his
hospitality to you and your companions?”
“To speak plainly, Don José,” said the señor, “our past experience
has not been such as to cause us to desire to have anything more to do
with you. May I remind you, putting aside other matters, that last
night you attempted to stab me?”
“Señor,” answered the man with every sign of contrition, “if I did
this it was because terror and madness possessed me, and most humbly
do I beg your pardon for the deed, and for any angry and foolish words
that I may have spoken before it. Señor, you saved my life, and my
heart is filled with gratitude towards you, who have thus repaid evil
with good. I know that you have heard an ill report of my father, and,
to speak truth, at times when the liquor is in him, he is a bad and
violent old man, yet he has this virtue, that he loves me, his son,
and all those who are kind to me. Therefore, in his name and my own, I
pray that you will forget the past and accept of our hospitality for
some few days, or at least until you have recovered from your fatigue
and we can furnish you with arms and horses to help you forward on
your journey.”
“Certainly we desire to buy mules and guns,” answered the señor, “and
if you think that your father will be able to supply these, we will
avail ourselves of your kindness and pass a night or two at his
_hacienda_.”
“Señor, the place is yours and all that it contains,” Don José
answered with much courtesy; but as he spoke I saw his eye gleam with
an evil fire.
“Doubtless,” I interrupted, “for I understand that Don Pedro Moreno is
famed for his hospitality. Still, in accepting it, I venture to ask
for a promise of safe-conduct, more especially as, save for our
pistols and knives, we are unarmed.”
“Do you wish to insult me, señor?” Don José asked angrily.
“Not in the least, señor, but I find it a little strange that you,
who two nights ago refused to sit at meat with ‘a dog of an Indian,’
should now be anxious to receive that same dog into your home.”
“Have I not said that I am sorry for what is past?” he answered, “and
can a man do more? Gentlemen, if any evil is attempted towards you in
my father’s house, I will answer for it with my life.”
“That is quite sufficient,” broke in the señor, “especially as in
such an event we should most certainly hold you to your bond. And now
tell me how far is the _hacienda_ from this spot?”
“If we start at once we should reach it at sundown,” he answered,
“that is on foot, though it is but three hours’ ride from the house to
the mouth of the river.”
“Then let us go,” he said, and ten minutes later we were on the road.
Before we went, however, we bade a warm farewell to the sailors, and
also to the _alcalde_ of the village, all of whom were somewhat
disturbed on learning that we proposed to sleep at Santa Cruz.
“The place has an evil name,” said the _alcalde_, “and it is a home of
thieves and smugglers--only last week a cargo that never paid duty
went up the river. They say that Don Pedro was fathered by the devil
in person; may the Saints protect you from him, lord!”
“We have business that takes us to this house, friend,” I answered;
“but doubtless it will be easy for you to keep yourself informed of
what chances in that neighbourhood, and if we should not appear again
within a few days, perhaps it may please you to advise the authorities
at Campeche that we are missing.”
“The authorities are afraid of Don Pedro,” answered the _alcalde_,
shaking his head, “also he bribes them so heavily that they grow blind
when they look his way. Still I will do the best I can, be sure of
that, and as an _Inglese_ is with you, it is possible that I may be
able to get help if necessary.”
Our walk that day was long and hot, though we had nothing to carry
except the clothes on our backs, all our possessions having been lost
in the ship. At noon we halted, and, the heat being great, ate some
food that we had brought with us, and slept two hours in the shade,
which sleep was most grateful, for we were weary. Then we rose and
tramped on, till at length we came within sight of this _hacienda_,
where, though I little guessed it at the time, I was fated to spend so
many years of my life.
Walking through a large _milpa_, or corn field,--that in front of the
building which is now planted with coffee-bushes,--we reached the
gateway and entered the courtyard, where we were met by many fierce
dogs which rushed upon us from all sides. Don José beat back the
dogs, that knew him, and, leaving us under the charge of some
half-breeds, he entered the house.
After a while he returned again and led us through the passages into
the dining-hall, which, as you know, is the largest room in the
_hacienda_, and in former days served as the refectory of the monks.
Several lamps were hung upon its walls, for already it grew dark, and
by their light we saw five or six people gathered round a long table
waiting for supper, which was being laid by Indian girls. Of these men
it is sufficient to say that they were of mixed nationality and
villainous appearance. Turning from them we looked towards the far end
of the chamber, where a hammock was slung from the beams in the roof,
in which lay a man whom a handsome girl, also an Indian, was employed
in rocking to and fro.
“Come and be introduced to my father, who expects you,” said Don
José, leading the way towards the hammock. “Father, here is that
brave Englishman who saved my life last night, and with him the Indian
gentleman, who--did not wish to save my life. As I told you, I have
offered them hospitality on your behalf, feeling sure that they would
be welcome here.”
At the sound of his son’s voice Don Pedro awoke, or pretended to
awake, from his doze, and bade the girl cease swinging the hammock.
Then he sat up and looked at us. He was a short stout man of about
sixty years of age,--so short indeed that, although the hammock was
slung low, his legs did not touch the floor. Notwithstanding this lack
of stature, Don Pedro’s appearance was striking, while his long,
carefully brushed white hair gave him a venerable aspect.
Other beauties he had none, however, for his cheeks were flabby and
wrinkled, his mouth was cruel and sensuous; and his dull eyes, which
were small, half opened, and protected from the glare of the lamps by
spectacles of tinted glass, can best be described as horrible, like
those of a snake. Looking at him we could well believe that his
reputation was not exaggerated, for he bore the stamp of evil on his
face. Still he bowed with much courtesy and addressed the señor in
Spanish.
“So you are the Englishman who saved my son here from the sinking
ship,” he said in a slow, powerful voice, peering at us with his
fish-like eyes from beneath the coloured glasses. “He tells me that
you rowed back to the side of the foundering vessel merely in order to
fetch him. Well, it was a brave deed and one that I should not have
dared myself, for I have always found it hard enough to keep my own
breath in me without attempting to preserve that of other people. But
as I have seen several times, you Englishmen are peculiar in these
matters, foolhardy indeed. Señor, I am grateful to you, and this
house and all within it is at your disposal and that of your
companions,” and he glanced with genuine affection at the coarse
beetle-browed man beside him, who was gnawing one end of his moustache
and staring at us out of the corners of his eyes.
“Tell me,” he added, “to what do I owe the honour of your presence?”
“To an accident, Don Pedro,” the señor answered. “As it chances, the
ruins of this ancient land interest me much, and I was travelling to
Palenque with my Indian friend, Don Ignatio, when we were so
unfortunate as to be wrecked near your hospitable house. In our
dilemma we accepted the invitation of your son to visit you, in the
hope that you may be able to sell us some guns and mules.”
“Ruins, Señor Strickland! Decidedly you Englishmen are strange. What
pleasure can you find in hunting about among old walls, built by men
long dead, unless indeed you seek for treasure there. For my part I
hate the name of ruins, for I have always suffered from a presentiment
that I should meet my end among them, and that is bad to think of.
Bah!”--and he spat upon the floor--“there, it comes upon me again,
suddenly as a fit of the ague.”
“Well,” he went on, “you are lucky to have saved your lives and your
money, and to-morrow we will see about the things that you desire to
buy. Meanwhile, you are travel-stained and doubtless will wish to
cleanse yourselves before you eat. José, conduct the señor and his
Indian friend, since he is so fond of his company, to their room, the
abbot’s chamber. Supper will be served shortly, till then, _adios_.
Girl, go with them,” he added, addressing the woman who had been
engaged in swinging the hammock, “water may be wanted and other
things.”
The woman bowed and went away, and at the door we found her standing,
lamp in hand, to light us down the passage.
Now, Señor Jones, you, for whom I write my history, have so often
slept in the abbot’s chamber in this house that it is needless for me
to stop to describe it. Except for the furniture, the room is just as
it was in those days. Then it was empty save for a few chairs, a rough
washing-stand, and two truckle bedsteads of American make, which were
placed at a little distance from each other on either side of the
picture of the abbot.
“I fear that you will think this a poor place, after the luxury of
Mexico, gentlemen,” said Don José, “but it is our guest-chamber, the
best that we have.”
“Thank you,” answered the señor, “it will do very well, though
perhaps your visitors suffer sometimes from nightmare,” and he glanced
at the awful and life-sized picture on the south wall of an Indian
being burnt at an _auto-da-fé_, while devils hanging above his head
dragged the soul from his tortured and expiring body.
“Pretty, are they not?” said Don José; “I would have them whitewashed
over, but my father likes them. You see all the victims are Indians,
there isn’t a white man among them, and the old man never could bear
Indians. Well, when you are ready, will you come to supper? You will
not lose the way, for you can follow the smell of the food,” and he
left the room.
“One moment,” I said addressing the girl, who was about to accompany
him, “perhaps you will see that our servant,” and I pointed to Molas,
“has some meat brought to him here, since your masters will not wish
him to sit at table.”
“_Si_,” answered the girl, whose name was Luisa, searching my face
with her eyes.
By this time Don José was through the door, which the draught pushed
to behind him. I watched it close, then a thought struck me, for I
remembered that among our Order there are women, associates of the
outer circle, and I whispered some words into Luisa’s ear and made a
sign with my hand. She started and gave the ancient answer, which is
taught even to children, whereto I replied with another sign, that of
the Presence of the Heart. “_Where_?” she asked glancing at each of us
in turn.
“_Here_,” I answered, and, drawing out the symbol, I held it before
her eyes.
She saw and made obeisance, and at that moment we heard Don José
calling her from the further side of the door.
“I come,” she cried in answer, then added in a whisper: “Lord, you are
in danger in this house. I cannot tell you now, but if possible I will
return. The wine is safe, but drink no coffee, and do not sleep when
you lie down. Search the floor and you will understand the reason. I
come, señor! I come!” and she fled from the room.
So soon as the girl was gone, the Señor James went to the door and
locked it, then he returned and said:
“What does all this mean, Ignatio?”
I did not answer, but, pushing aside one of the beds, I searched the
floor beneath it. It was discoloured in several places. Next I pulled
the blankets off the beds and examined the webbing that formed the
mattresses, to discover that this also was stained, though slightly,
for it had been washed. Then I said:
“Men have died in these beds, señor, and yonder stains were made by
their blood. It would seem that the guests of Don Pedro sleep well;
first they are drugged, then they are murdered; and it is for this
purpose that we have been lured to the house. Well, we expected
nothing else.”
“That is a pleasing prospect,” he answered, “we are this man’s guests,
surely therefore he will not----” and he drew his hand across his
throat.
“Certainly he will, señor, and it is to this end that we have been
brought here by Don José. If others have been murdered, it is not
likely that we shall escape, since Don Pedro will be sure that an
_Inglese_ would not travel without a large sum of money. Moreover, we
have a quarrel with the son, and know too much about the father.”
“Again I say that the prospect is a pleasant one,” answered the
señor. “On the whole it would have been better to be drowned than to
live on to be butchered by those villains in this awful place. What an
end!”
“Do not despair,” I answered. “We are warned in time and therefore, I
think, shall escape by the help of that girl and the other Indians in
the place, since in an hour every one of them will have learned who we
are, and be prepared to venture their lives to save us. Also we came
for a purpose, knowing our risk. Now let us make ready and go among
these men with a bold face; for of this you may be sure, that nothing
will be attempted till late at night when they think us sleeping. Have
you understood, Molas?”
“Yes,” answered the Indian.
“Then watch here, or in the outer room, till we return, and should the
girl come, learn all you can from her as to the whereabouts of the old
doctor and his daughter, and other matters, for when she knows you to
be of the Order she will speak. Have you been recognised by anyone?”
“I think not, señor. When we entered it was too dark for them to
see.”
“Good. Then keep out of their way if possible, do the best you can
with the girl, and take note of all that passes. Farewell.”
When we reached the dining-hall, nine of the company were already
seated at the table impatient for their food, but Don Pedro was still
sitting in his hammock engaged in earnest conversation with his son
José. Of those at the table but one was a white man, a lanky,
withered-looking person with a broken nose, whose general appearance
filled us with disgust. The rest were half-breeds, the refuse of
revolutions, villains who had escaped the hand of justice and who
lived by robbery and murder.
Looking at these outcasts it became clear to us that, if once we fell
into their power, we could expect little mercy at their hands, for
they would think no more of butchering us in cold blood than does a
sportsman of shooting a deer.
When Don Pedro perceived us, he slid from his hammock to the ground,
and, taking the señor by the hand, he said:
“Let me introduce you to my overseer, the Señor Smith, from Texas. He
is an American and will be glad to meet one who can speak English,
for, notwithstanding much practice, his Spanish is none of the best.”
The señor bowed, and the American desperado spoke to him in English,
wearing a grin on his face like that of a wicked dog as he did so,
though I do not know what he said. Then Don Pedro conducted his guest
to a place of honour at the head of the table, that beside his own
seat, while I was led to another table at a little distance, where my
meat was served to me alone, since, as an Indian of pure blood, I was
not thought fit for the company of these cross-bred curs. Don José
having taken his place at the further end of the board with the
_Americano_, the meal began, and an excellent one it was.
Now, in the conversation that ensued I took no part, except when
members of the gang called to me to drink wine with them, for they
desired to make me drunk; but while I pretended to be occupied with my
meat, I thought much and watched more. The talk that passed I set down
as I overheard it and as it was reported to me by the señor.
“Try some more of this Burgundy,” said Don Pedro when the dishes had
been removed, filling his tumbler for the seventh or eighth time, “it
is the right stuff, straight from France, though it never paid duty,”
and he winked his leaden eye.
“Your health, señor, and may you live to do many such brave deeds as
that of yesterday, when you saved my son from the sea. By the way, do
you know that on board the _Santa Maria_ they said that you had the
evil eye and brought her to wreck;--yes, and your long-faced
companion, the Indian, also?”
“Indeed, I never heard of it before,” answered the señor with a
laugh; “but if so, our evil eyes shall not trouble you for long, as we
propose to continue our journey to-morrow.”
“Nonsense, friend, nonsense, you don’t suppose that I believe in that
sort of rubbish, do you? We say many things that we do not believe
just for a joke; thus,” and he raised his voice so that I could hear
him at my table, “your companion there--is he not named Ignatio?--told
a story to my disadvantage on board the ship, which I am sure that he
did not believe,” and suddenly he stared at me and added insolently:
“Is it not so, Indian?”
“If you seek my opinion, Don Pedro,” I answered, leaning forward and
speaking very clearly, “I say that it is unprofitable to repeat words
that are said, or to remember deeds that are done with. If I spoke
certain words, or if in the past you did certain deeds, here beneath
your hospitable roof is not the place to recall them.”
“Quite so, Indian, quite so, you talk like an oracle, as Montezuma
used to talk to Cortes till the Conqueror found a way to teach him
plain speaking--a great man, Cortes, he understood how to deal with
Indians.” Then he spat upon the floor and, having looked down the
table, spoke to the señor in a somewhat anxious voice.
“Tell me,” he said, “for your sight is better than mine, how many are
there present here to-night?”
“Counting my friend, thirteen,” he answered.
“I thought so,” said our host, with an oath, “and it is too late to
mend matters now. Well, may the Saints, and they should be thick about
a monastery, avert the omen. I see you think me a fool.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “I am rather superstitious myself and
dislike sitting down thirteen to table.”
“So do I, so do I, Señor Strickland. Listen; last time we dined
thirteen in this room, there were two travellers here, _Americanos_,
friends of Don Smith, who were trying to open up a trade in these
parts. They drank more than was good for them, and the end of it was
that in the night they quarrelled and killed each other, yonder in the
abbot’s chamber, where you are sleeping,--poor men, poor men! There
was trouble about the matter at the time, but Don Smith explained to
his countrymen and it came to nothing.”
“Indeed,” answered the señor; “it was strange that two drunken men
should kill each other.”
“So I say, señor. In truth for a while I thought that Indians must
have got into their rooms and murdered them, but it was proved beyond
a doubt that this was not so. Ah! they are a wicked people, the
Indians; I have seen much of them and I should know. Now the
Government wishes to treat them too well. Our fathers knew better how
to deal with them, but luckily the arm of the Government scarcely
reaches here, and no whining _padres_ or officials come prying about
my house, though once we had some soldiers,” and he cursed at the
recollection and drank another glass of Burgundy.
“I tell you that they are a wicked people,” he went on, “the
_demonios_ their fathers worshipped still possess them, also they are
secret and dangerous; there are Indians now who know where vast
treasures are buried, but they will tell nothing.
“Yes,”--and suddenly growing excited under the influence of the strong
drink, he leaned over and whispered into his guest’s ear,--“I have one
such in the house at this moment, an old _Lacandone_, that is, an
unbaptised Indian, not that I think him any the worse for that, and
with him his daughter, a woman more beautiful than the night--perhaps
if I go on liking you, Englishman, I will show her to you to-morrow,
only then I should have to keep you, for you would never go away.
Beautiful! yes, she is beautiful, though a devil at heart. I have not
dared to let these little ones see her,” and he winked and nodded
towards the villains at the table, “but José is to pay her and her
papa a visit to-night, and he won’t mind her tempers, though they
frighten me.
“Well, would you believe it? this girl and her old father have the
secret of enough treasure to make every man of us here rich as the
Queen of England. How do I know that? I know it because I heard it
from their own lips, but fill your glass and take a cigar and I will
tell you the story.”