In ill-humour I journeyed along. The hot sun and the dusty road did not
improve my temper, ruffled as it was by the unpleasant incident. I was
far from satisfied with my first lieutenant, whose conduct was still a
mystery. Wheatley could not explain it. Some old enmity, no doubt--
both of us believed--some story of wrong and revenge.
No everyday man was Holingsworth, but one altogether of peculiar
character and temperament--as unlike him who rode by my side as acid to
alkali. The latter was a dashing, cheerful fellow, dressed in
half-Mexican costume, who could ride a wild horse and throw the lazo
with any vaquero in the crowd. He was a true Texan, almost by birth;
had shared the fortunes of the young republic since the days of Austin:
and was never more happy than while engaged in the border warfare, that,
with slight intervals, had been carried on against either Mexican or
Indian foeman, ever since the lone-star had spread its banner to the
breeze. No raw recruit was Wheatley; though young, he was what Texans
term an "old Indian fighter"--a real "Texas ranker."
Holingsworth was not a Texan, but a Tennessean, though Texas had been
for some years his adopted home. It was not the first time he had
crossed the Rio Grande. He had been one of the unfortunate Mier
expedition--a survivor of that decimated band--afterwards carried in
chains to Mexico, and there compelled to work breast-deep in the mud of
the great _zancas_ that traverse the streets. Such experience might
account for the serious, somewhat stern expression that habitually
rested upon his countenance, and gave him the character of a "dark
saturnine man." I have said incidentally that I never saw him smile--
never. He spoke seldom, and, as a general thing, only upon matters of
duty; but at times, when he fancied himself alone, I have heard him
mutter threats, while a convulsive twitching of the muscles and a
mechanical clenching of the fingers accompanied his words, as though he
stood in the presence of some deadly foe! I had more than once observed
these frenzied outbursts, without knowing aught of their cause. Harding
Holingsworth--such was his full name--was a man with whom no one would
have cared to take the liberty of asking an explanation of his conduct.
His courage and war-prowess were well known among the Texans; but it is
idle to add this, since otherwise he could not have stood among them in
the capacity of a leader. Men like them, who have the election of their
own officers, do not trust their lives to the guidance of either
stripling or coward.
Wheatley and I were talking the matter over as we rode along, and
endeavouring to account for the strange behaviour of Holingsworth. We
had both concluded that the affair had arisen from some old enmity--
perhaps connected with the Mier expedition--when accidentally I
mentioned the Mexican's name. Up to this moment the Texan lieutenant
had not seen Ijurra--having been busy with the cattle upon the other
side of the hill--nor had the name been pronounced in his hearing.
"Ijurra?" he exclaimed with a start, reining up, and turning upon me an
inquiring look.
"Ijurra."
"_Rafael_ Ijurra, do you think?"
"Yes, Rafael--that is the name."
"A tall dark fellow, moustached and whiskered?--not ill-looking?"
"Yes; he might answer that description," I replied.
"If it be the same Rafael Ijurra that used to live at San Antonio,
there's more than one Texan would like to raise _his_ hair. The same--
it must be--there's no two of the name; 'taint likely--no."
"What do you know of him?"
"Know?--that he's about the most precious scoundrel in all Texas or
Mexico either, and that's saying a good deal. Rafael Ijurra? 'Tis he,
by thunder! It _can_ be nobody else; and Holingsworth--Ha! now I think
of it, it's just the man; and Harding Holingsworth, of all men living,
has good reasons to remember _him_."
"How? Explain!"
The Texan paused for a moment, as if to collect his scattered memories,
and then proceeded to detail what he knew of Rafael Ijurra. His
account, without the expletives and emphatic ejaculations which adorned
it, was substantially as follows:--
Rafael Ijurra was by birth a Texan of Mexican race. He had formerly
possessed a hacienda near San Antonio de Bexar, with other considerable
property, all of which he had spent at play, or otherwise dissipated, so
that he had sunk to the status of a professional gambler. Up to the
date of the Mier expedition he had passed off as a citizen of Texas,
under the new regime, and pretended much patriotic attachment to the
young republic. When the Mier adventure was about being organised,
Ijurra had influence enough to have himself elected one of its officers.
No one suspected his fidelity to the cause. He was one of those who at
the halt by Laredo urged the imprudent advance upon Mier; and his
presumed knowledge of the country--of which, he was a native--gave
weight to his counsel. It afterwards proved that his free advice was
intended for the benefit of the enemy, with whom he was in secret
correspondence.
On the night before the battle Ijurra was missing. The Texan army was
captured after a brave defence--in which they slew more than their own
number of the enemy--and, under guard, the remnant was marched off for
the capital of Mexico. On the second or third day of their march, what
was the astonishment of the Texan prisoners to see Rafael Ijurra _in the
uniform of a Mexican officer, and forming part of their escort_! But
that their hands were bound, they would have torn him to pieces, so
enraged were they at this piece of black treason.
"I was not in that ugly scrape," continued the lieutenant. "As luck
would have it, I was down with a fever in Brazos bottom, or I guess I
should have had to _draw my bean_ with the rest of 'em, poor fellows!"
Wheatley's allusion to "drawing his bean" I understood well enough. All
who have ever read the account of this ill-starred adventure will
remember, that the Texans, goaded by ill-treatment, rose upon their
guard, disarmed, and conquered them; but in their subsequent attempt to
escape, ill managed and ill guided, nearly all of them were recaptured,
and _decimated_--each tenth man having been shot like a dog!
The mode of choosing the victims was by lot, and the black and white
beans of Mexico (_frijoles_) were made use of as the expositors of the
fatal decrees of destiny. A number of the beans, corresponding to the
number of the captives, was placed within an earthen _olla_--there being
a black bean for every nine white ones. He who drew the black bean must
die!
During the drawing of this fearful lottery, there occurred incidents
exhibiting character as heroic as has ever been recorded in story.