"I know not, Captain. I am ashamed to tell you that I lost it the day
after you gave it to me!"
"Oh! never mind. Take it again, and say to your papa, I shall bring
`_el senor gordo_' (the fat gentleman) along with me."
"You will know the way, Captain. Yonder is our house." And the lad
pointed to the white turrets of an aristocratic-looking mansion that
appeared over the tree-tops, about a mile distant from the town.
"I shall easily find it."
"Adieu, then, Captain; we shall be impatient till you arrive--_hasta la
tarde_!" (till the evening).
So saying, the youth departed.
I communicated to Clayley the cause of my temporary withdrawal; and,
seizing the earliest opportunity, we left our companions over their
cups.
It was now near sundown, and we were about to jump into our saddles,
when I recollected my promise to bring the major. Clayley proposed
leaving him behind and planning an apology; but a hint that he might be
useful in "keeping off" Don Cosme and the senora caused the lieutenant
suddenly to change his tactics, and we set out for Blossom's quarters.
We had no difficulty in persuading "_el senor gordo_" to accompany us,
as soon as he ascertained where we were going. He had never ceased to
remember _that_ dinner. Hercules was brought out and saddled, and we
all three galloped off for the mansion of our friends.
After passing under the shadows, of green trees, and through copses
filled with bright flowers, we arrived at the house, one of the fairest
mansions it had ever been our fortune to enter. We were just in time to
enjoy the soft twilight of an eternal spring--of a landscape _siempre
verde_; and, what was more to the major's mind, in time for a supper
that rivalled the well-remembered dinner.
As I had anticipated, the major proved exceedingly useful during the
visit. In his capacity of quarter-master he had already picked up a
little Spanish--enough to hold Don Cosme in check over the wine; while
Clayley and myself, with "Lupe" and "Luz", walked out into the verandah
to "take a peep at the moon". Her light was alluring, and we could not
resist the temptation of a stroll through the gardens.
It was celestial night; and we dallied along _dos y dos_ (two and two),
under the pictured shadows of the orange-trees, and sat upon
curiously-formed benches, and gazed upon the moon, and listened to the
soft notes of the tropic night-birds.
The perils of the past were all forgotten, and the perils of the
future--we thought not of them.
It was late when we said "_buenas noches_" to our friends, and we parted
with a mutual "_hasta la manana_." It is needless to say that we kept
our promise in the morning, and made another for the following morning,
and kept that too; and so on till the awful bugle summoned us once more
to the "route."
The detail of our actions during these days would have no interest for
the reader, though to us the most interesting part of our lives. There
was a sameness--a monotony, it is true; but a monotony that both my
friend and myself could have endured for ever.
I do not even remember the details. All I can remember is, that on the
eve of our march I found myself "cornering" Don Cosme, and telling him
plainly, to his teeth, that I meant to marry one of his daughters; and
that my friend--who had not yet learned the "lingo", and had duly
commissioned me as his "go-between"--would be most happy to take the
other off his hands.
I remember very well, too, Don Cosme's reply, which was given with a
half-smile, half-grin--somewhat cold, though not disagreeable in its
expression. It was thus:
"Captain--_when the war is over_."
Don Cosme had no intention that his daughters should become widows
before they had fairly been wives.
And we bade adieu once more to the light of love, and walked in the
shadow of war; and we toiled up to the high tables of the Andes, and
crossed the burning plains of Perote; and we forded the cold streams of
Rio Frio, and climbed the snowy spurs of Popocatepec; and, after many a
toilsome march, our bayonets bristled along the borders of the Lake
Tezcoco. Here we fought--a death-struggle, too--for we knew there was
no retreat. But our struggle was crowned with victory, and the starry
flag waved over the ancient city of the Aztecs.
Neither my friend nor myself escaped unhurt. We were shot "all over";
but, fortunately, no bones were broken, and neither of us was converted
into a cripple.
And then came the "piping times of peace", and Clayley and I spent our
days in riding out upon the Jalapa road, watching for that great old
family-carriage, which, it had been promised, should come.
And it came rumbling along at length, drawn by twelve mules, and
deposited its precious load in a palace in the Calle Capuchinas.
And shortly after, two officers in shining uniforms entered the portals
of that same palace, sent up their cards, and were admitted on the
instant. Ah! these were rare times! But rarer still--for it should
only occur once in a man's lifetime--was an hour spent in the little
chapel of San Bernardo.
There is a convent--Santa Catarina--the richest in Mexico; the richest,
perhaps, in the world. There are nuns there--beautiful creatures--who
possess property (some of them being worth a million of dollars); and
yet these children of heaven never look upon the face of man!
About a week after my visit to San Bernardo, I was summoned to the
convent, and permitted--a rare privilege for one of my sex--to enter its
sacred precincts. It was a painful scene. Poor "Mary of Mercy"! How
lovely she looked in her snow-white vestments!--lovelier in her sorrow
than I had ever seen her before. May God pour out the balm of oblivion
into the heart of this erring but repentant angel!
I returned to New Orleans in the latter part of 1848. I was walking one
morning along the Levee, with a fair companion on my arm, when a
well-known voice struck on my ear, exclaiming:
"I'll be dog-goned, Rowl, if it ain't the cap'n!"
I turned, and beheld Raoul and the hunter. They had doffed the
regimentals, and were preparing to "start" on a trapping expedition to
the Rocky Mountains.
I need not describe our mutual pleasure at meeting, which was more than
shared by my wife, who had often made me detail to her the exploits of
my comrades. I inquired for Chane. The Irishman, at the breaking up of
the "war-troops", had entered one of the old regiments, and was at this
time, as Lincoln expressed it, "the first sargint of a kump'ny."
I could not permit my old ranging comrades to depart without a
_souvenir_. My companion drew off a pair of rings, and presented one to
each on the spot. The Frenchman, with the gallantry of a Frenchman,
drew his upon his finger; but Lincoln, after trying to do the same,
declared, with a comical grin, that he couldn't "git the eend of his
wipin' stick inter it." He wrapped it up carefully, however, and
deposited it in his bullet-pouch.
My friends accompanied us to our hotel, where I found them more
appropriate presents than the rings. To Raoul I gave my revolving
pistols, not expecting to have any further use for them myself; and to
the hunter, that which he valued more than any other earthly object, the
major's "Dutch gun". Doubtless, ere this, the _zundnadel_ has slain
many a "grisly b'ar" among the wild ravines of the Rocky Mountains.
Courteous reader! I was about to write the word "adieu", when "Little
Jack" handed me a letter, bearing the Vera Cruz post-mark. It was
dated, "_La Virgen, November 1, 1849_." It concluded as follows:
"You were a fool for leaving Mexico, and you'll never be half as happy
anywhere else as I am here. You would hardly know the `ranche'--I
mean the fields. I have cleared off the weeds, and expect next year
to take a couple of hundred bales off the ground. I believe I can
raise as good cotton here as in Louisiana; besides, I have a little
corner for vanilla. It would do your heart good to see the
improvements; and little Luz, too, takes such an interest in all I do.
Haller, I'm the happiest man in creation.
"I dined yesterday with our old friend Cenobio; and you should have
seen him when I told him the man he had in his company. I thought he
would have split his sides. He's a perfect old trump this Cenobio,
notwithstanding his smuggling propensities.
"By the way, you have heard, I suppose, that our `other old friend',
the padre, has been shot. He took part with Paredes against the
Government. They caught him at Queretaro, and shot him with a dozen
or so of his `beauties' in less than a squirrel's jump.
"And now, my dear Haller, a last word. We all want you to come back.
The house at Jalapa is ready for you, and Dona Joaquina says it is
yours, and she wants you to come back.
"Don Cosme, too--with whom it appears Lupe was the favourite--he wants
you to come back. Old Cenobio, who is still puzzled about how you got
the knife to cut through the adobes, he wants you to come back. Luz
is fretting after Lupe, and she wants you to come back. And, last of
all, _I_ want you to come back. So `stand not on the order' of your
coming, but come at once.
"Yours for ever,--
"Edward Clayley."
Reader, do _you_ want me to come back?