THE LAST HALT.
Now that we are approaching the last pages of our book, we cannot
repress a feeling of regret on thinking of the scenes of blood and
murder which, in order to be truthful, we were compelled to unfold
before our readers. If this narrative had been a fable, and we had been
able to arrange our subject at our pleasure, most assuredly many scenes
would have been cut down and altered. Unhappily, we have been obliged to
narrate facts just as they happened, although we have frequently been
careful to tone down certain details whose naked truth would have
scandalized the reader.
Were we to be reproached with the continual combats in which our heroes
are engaged, we should reply; we describe the manners of a race which is
daily diminishing in the convulsive grasp of the civilization against
which it struggles in vain; this race is called upon by the fatal decree
of fate to disappear ere long eternally from the face of the globe; its
manners and customs will then pass into the condition of a legend and
being preserved by tradition, will not fail to be falsified and become
incomprehensible. It is therefore our duty, who have become the unworthy
historian of this unhappy race, to make it known as it was, as it is
still, for acting otherwise would have been a felonious deed on our
part, of which our readers would have been justified in complaining.
Finishing this parenthesis, which is already too long, but which we
believe to be not merely necessary but indispensable, we will resume
our narrative at the point where we left it.
We will now lead the reader to the extreme outposts of the Mexican army.
This army, six thousand strong on its entrance into Texas, now amounted
to no more than fifteen hundred, including a reinforcement of five
hundred men, which General Cos had just brought up. The successive
victories gained by Santa Anna over the Texans had therefore cost him
just five thousand men. This negative triumph caused the President of
the Mexican Republic considerable reflection. He began to understand the
extraordinary difficulties of this war against an exasperated people,
and he speculated with terror on the terrible consequences a defeat
would have for him, if those intractable enemies he had been pursuing so
long resolved at last to wait for him and succeeded in defeating him.
Unluckily, whatever Santa Anna's apprehensions might be, it was too late
to withdraw, and he must try his fortune to the end.
A space of five leagues at the most separated the two belligerent
armies, and that space was diminished nearly one-half by the position of
their videttes. The vanguard of the Mexican army, composed of two
hundred regulars, was commanded by Colonel Melendez, but a league
further ahead was encamped a forlorn hope, which had to clear the way
for the movements of the army. These were simply the pirates of the
prairies, commanded by our old acquaintance Sandoval, whom we saw a
short time back introduce himself to the Jaguar, and make so singular a
bargain with him.
In spite of the extremely slight esteem in which the Mexican army held
the honesty of the said Sandoval and his myrmidons, General Santa Anna
found himself constrained to place a certain amount of confidence in
these thorough-paced scoundrels, owing to their incontestable capability
as guides, and above all, as flankers. The General, consequently, found
himself obliged almost to close his eyes to the crimes they committed
nearly daily, and to let them act as they pleased. Let us add, that the
pirates conscientiously abused the liberty conceded them, and did not
hesitate to indulge in the most extraordinary caprices, which we had
better pass over in silence.
These worthy men, then, were bivouacked, as we have said, about a league
in advance of the Mexican army, and as they liked to take their ease
whenever the opportunity offered, they had found nothing better than
quartering themselves in a pueblo, whose inhabitants had naturally fled
at their approach, and the houses of which the pirates pulled down, in
order to procure wood for their campfires. Still, either by accident or
some other reason, one house, or rather hut, had escaped the general
ruin, and alone remained standing. It was not only untouched, but shut
up, and a sentry was stationed before the door. This sentry, however,
did not appear to trouble himself much about the orders given him; for
being probably annoyed by the sun, whose beams fell vertically on his
head, he was lying cozily in the shade of a stall luckily standing
opposite the house, and with his musket within reach, was smoking,
sleeping, and dreaming, while waiting till his term of duty was over,
and a comrade came to take his place.
As this house served at this moment as the abode of Doña Carmela, we
will ask the reader to enter it with us. The maiden, sad and pensive,
was reclining in a hammock suspended before a window, open, in spite of
the heat of the day, and her eyes, red with weeping, were invariably
fixed on the desolate plain, which the sun parched, and whose sand
flashed like diamonds. Of what was the poor girl thinking, while the
tears she did not dream of wiping away, coursed down her pallid cheeks,
where they traced a furrow?
Perhaps at this age, when recollections do not go back beyond yesterday,
she remembered in bitterness of spirit the happy days of the Venta del
Potrero, where with Tranquil and Lanzi, those two devoted hearts to
protect her, all smiled upon her, and the future appeared to her so
gentle and calm. Perhaps, too, she thought of the Jaguar, for whom she
felt such friendship, or of Colonel Melendez, whose respectful and
profound love had made her so often dream involuntarily, in the way
maidens dream.
But, alas! all this had now faded away; farewell to the exquisite
dreams! Where were Tranquil and Lanzi, the Jaguar and Colonel Melendez?
She was alone, unfriended, and defenceless, in the power of a man the
mere sight of whom filled her with terror. And yet, let us add, the man
whom we have represented under such gloomy colours, this White Scalper,
seemed to have become completely metamorphosed. The tiger had become a
lamb in the presence of the maiden, he offered her the most delicate
attentions, and did everything she wished--not that she ever expressed a
desire, for the poor girl would not have dared to have done so, but he
strove to divine what might please her, and then did it with unexampled
eagerness. At times he would stand for hours before her, leaning against
a wall, with his eyes fixed on her with an undefinable expression,
without uttering a word. Then he would withdraw with a shake of the
head, stifle a sigh, and murmur--"Good God! If it were she!" There was
something touching in the timid and humble grief of this terrible man,
who made all tremble around him, and yet himself trembled before a girl;
although Doña Carmela, unaffected by the egotism of suffering persons,
did not seem to perceive the influence she exercised over this powerful
and stern nature.
The door opened, and White Scalper entered. He was still dressed in the
same garb, he was still as upright, but his face no longer wore that
expression of haughty and implacable ferocity which we have seen on it.
A cloud of sorrow was spread over his features, and his deep sunken eyes
had lost that fire which had given his glance so strange and magnetic a
fixity. The maiden did not turn at the sound of the Scalper's footsteps:
the latter halted, and for a long time remained motionless, waiting,
doubtless, till she would notice his presence. But the girl did not
stir, and hence he resolved to speak.
"Doña Carmela!" he said in a voice whose roughness he tried to smooth.
She made no reply, but continued to gaze out on the plain. The Scalper
sighed, and then said in a louder key:
"Doña Carmela!"
This time the maiden heard him, for a nervous tremor agitated her, and
she turned quickly round.
"What do you want with me?" she asked.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, on perceiving her face bathed in tears, "you are
weeping."
The maiden blushed and passed her handkerchief over her face with a
feverish gesture.
"What matter?" she muttered, and then, striving to recover herself, she
asked, "What do you want with me, señor? Heavens, since I am condemned
to be your slave, could you not at any rate allow me the free enjoyment
of this room?"
"I thought I should cause you pleasure," he said, "by announcing to you
the visit of an acquaintance."
A bitter smile contracted the maiden's lips.
"Who cares for me?" she said with a sigh.
"Pardon me, Señorita, my intention was kind. Frequently, while you sit
pensively as you are doing today, unconnected words and names have
passed your lips."
"Ah! That is true," she answered; "not only is my person captive, but
you will also like to enchain my thoughts."
This sentence was uttered with such an accent of concentrated anger and
bitterness, that the old man started, and a livid pallor suddenly
covered his face.
"It is well, Señor," the girl continued, "for the future I will be on my
guard."
"I believed, I repeat," he replied with an accent of concentrated scorn,
"that I should render you happy by bringing to you Colonel Melendez; but
since I am mistaken, you shall not see him, Señorita."
"What!" she exclaimed, bounding up like a lioness; "What did you say,
Señor? What name did you pronounce?"
"That of Colonel Melendez."
"Have you summoned him?"
"Yes."
"Is he here?"
"He is awaiting your permission to enter."
The maiden gazed at him for a moment with an indescribable expression of
amazement.
"Why, you must love me!" she at length burst forth.
"She asks that question!" the old man murmured sadly. "Will you see the
Colonel?"
"One moment, oh, one moment; I want to know you, to understand you, and
learn what I ought to think of you."
"Alas, I repeat to you, señorita, that I love you, love you to
adoration; oh! Do not feel alarmed; that love has nothing of an
insulting nature: what I love in you is an extraordinary, supernatural
likeness to a woman who died, alas! On the same day that when my
daughter was torn from me by the Indians. The daughter I lost, whom I
shall never see again, would be your age, señorita: such is the secret
of my love for you, of my repeated attempts to seize your person. Oh,
let me love you, and deceive myself; in looking at you I fancy I see my
poor dear child, and that error renders me so happy. Oh señorita! If you
only knew what I have suffered, what I still suffer, from this miserable
wound which burns my heart--oh! You would have pity on me."
While the old man spoke with an impassioned accent, his face was almost
transfigured; it had assumed such an expression of tenderness and
sorrow, that the maiden felt affected, and by an involuntary impulse
offered him her hand.
"Poor father!" she said to him in a gentle and pitiful voice.
"Thanks for that word," he replied in a voice choking with emotion,
while his face was inundated with tears; "thanks, señorita, I feel less
unhappy now."
Then, after a moment's silence, he wiped away his tears.
"Do you wish him to come in?" he asked softly.
She smiled: the old man rushed to the door and threw it wide open. The
Colonel entered and ran up to the maiden. White Scalper went out and
closed the door after him.
"At last," the Colonel exclaimed joyously, "I have found you again, dear
Carmela!"
"Alas!" she said.
"Yes," he exclaimed with animation, "I understand you, but now you have
nothing more to fear; I will free you from the odious yoke that
oppresses you, and tear you from your ravisher."
The maiden softly laid her hand on his arm, and shook her head with an
admirable expression of melancholy.
"I am not a prisoner," she said.
"What?" he exclaimed with the utmost surprise, "Did not this man carry
you off?"
"I do not say that, my friend. I merely say that I am not a prisoner."
"I do not understand you," he remarked.
"Alas, I do not understand myself."
"Then, you think that if you wished to leave this house and follow me to
the camp, this man would not attempt to prevent you?"
"I am convinced of it."
"Then we will start at once, Doña Carmela; I will manage to obtain you
respectable shelter till your father is restored to you."
"No, my friend, I shall not go, I cannot follow you."
"Why, what prevents you?"
"Did I not tell you that I do not understand myself; an hour agone I
would have followed you gladly, but now I cannot."
"What has happened, then, during that period?"
"Listen, Don Juan, I will be frank with you. I love you, as you know,
and shall be happy to be your wife; but if my happiness depended on my
leaving this room, I would not do it."
"Pardon what I am going to say, Doña Carmela, but this is madness."
"No it is not, I cannot explain it to you, as I do not understand it
myself; but I feel that if I left this place against the wishes of the
man who retains me here, I should commit a bad action."
The Colonel's amazement at these strange words attained such a height
that he could not find a word to reply, but he looked wildly at the
maiden. The man who loves is never mistaken as to the feelings of the
woman he loves. The young man felt instinctively that Carmela was
directed by her heart in the resolution she had formed. At this moment
the door opened, and White Scalper appeared. His appearance was a great
relief to the pair, for they were frightfully embarrassed, and the young
man especially understood that this unexpected arrival would be of great
help to him. There was in the demeanour and manner of the old man a
dignity which Carmela had never before remarked.
"Pardon me disturbing you," he said, with a kindly accent, that made his
hearers start.
"Oh," he continued, pretending to be mistaken as to the impression he
produced; "excuse me, Colonel, for speaking in this way, but I love Doña
Carmela so dearly that I love all she loves; though old men are
egotistic, as you are aware, I have been busy on your behalf during my
absence."
Carmela and the Colonel looked their amazement. The old man smiled.
"You shall judge for yourselves," he said. "I have just heard, from a
scout who has come in, that a reinforcement of Indians has turned our
lines, and joined the enemy, among them being a wood ranger, called
Tranquil."
"My father!" Carmela exclaimed, in delight.
"Yes," the Scalper said, suppressing a sigh.
"Oh, pardon me!" the maiden said, as she offered him her hand.
"Poor child! How could I feel angry with you? Must not your heart fly
straight to your father?"
The Colonel was utterly astounded.
"This is what I thought," the old man continued. "Señor Melendez will
ask General Santa Anna's authority to go under a flag of truce to the
enemy. He will see Doña Carmela's father, and, after reassuring him
about her safety, if he desire that his daughter should be restored to
him I will take her to him myself."
"But that is impossible!" the maiden quickly exclaimed.
"Why so?"
"Are you not my father's enemy?"
"I was the enemy of the hunter, dear child, but never your father's
enemy."
"Señor," the Colonel said, walking a step toward the old man, "forgive
me; up to the present I have misunderstood you, or rather, did not know
you; you are a man of heart."
"No," he answered; "I am a father who has lost his daughter, and who
consoles himself by a sweet error;" and he uttered a deep sigh, and
added, "time presses; begone, Colonel, so that you may return all the
sooner."
"You are right," the young man said. "Farewell, Carmela, for the
present."
And, without waiting for the maiden's reply, he rushed out. But when
the Colonel joined his men again, he learned that the order for the
forward march had arrived. He was obliged to obey, and defer his visit
to the General for the present.