THE JAROCHO’S PRISONER.
An old, gray-haired man, unarmed and upon foot, was slowly and wearily
walking along a narrow, faintly-defined pathway that wound, leading up
and around a precipitous hill that might almost be called a mountain. He
was dressed in a travel-stained suit of frayed and torn clothes, that
gave him the appearance of one of the beggars that may be met with in
the province described. His tall and once powerful frame was bowed
somewhat, and he leaned heavily upon his stout staff. His hands and face
were begrimed with dust, and this, added to a stiff, bristling beard of
several days’ growth, helped to complete the picture.
“Hold, _vagabundo_! what are you doing here?” challenged the voice of a
concealed man, and the wayfarer’s ears were saluted by a significant
_click_, so suggestive of an ounce of lead, as he suddenly paused and
exclaimed:
“Do not fire, _senor_ stranger; I am a friend.”
“Are there more of you?”
“I am alone, and, as you see, unarmed,” replied the traveler.
“Good. But who are you, and what do you seek here?” the challenger
added, as he stepped from his covert among the bushes, and leaped
lightly down into the pathway.
He was the _beau ideal_ of a hardy mountaineer, tall, handsome, and of a
fine, stalwart form. His dress was that of a _Jarocho_ (as all the
peasants who reside near the sea-coast and the country around Vera Cruz
are termed), and wore in all its purity the peculiar costume of this
class of men.
A hat of _Jipajopa_ straw, with the broad brim turned up behind; a fine
linen shirt, with a band of fine embroidery half hidden between frills
of cambric, worn without any vest or coat above it; and a pair of purple
cotton-velvet _calzeneros_, open at the knee, and falling in two points
to the middle of his calf. A scarf of scarlet China crape was knotted
around his waist, in which hung a straight sword, or _cortente_, without
sheath or guard, the sharp and glittering blade of which sparkled in the
bright sunshine. On his feet were half-boots of stamped Cardovan
leather, heavily spiked with steel. A very valuable, if only for its
gold and silver mountings, carabine was dropped into the hollow of his
left arm, while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand played with
the hammer and trigger, as he curiously scanned the traveler’s face and
form.
“The _senor_ can see that I am a poor, homeless traveler who has been
forced to beg his way from Tabasco, on foot, old as I am. And I fear me
my long journey has been for naught. I have only one hope left me now,
and I seek for Don Serapio Barana, or if he is dead, any of his old
band.”
“Ha! what may be your business with him, or I should say them?”
exclaimed the Jarocho, in apparent surprise.
“Do you know aught of him? The blessed Virgin grant that you may say
yes!” cried the traveler, eagerly. “Can you direct me to him?”
“Perhaps. But answer my question first. What is it you wish to know?”
“Listen, then; a few words will tell it. To Don Barana’s band of—of
_guerilleros_ there belonged a man called Tomas Ventura, and whom I have
lost track of for nearly twenty years. I wish to know whether he yet
lives, or if he is dead, to be shown his grave,” hurriedly uttered the
traveler.
“And for what—why should you look for him, who may have died years
since?”
“Senor, he was my brother!”
“Your brother?” slowly said the Jarocho, then added, after a slight
pause: “Well, I will trust you, as I think you are honest. I belonged to
the band at that time, and think I remember the man. But there are older
men among us, who may be able to tell you about him, for I was but a boy
then. However, do not hope for too good tidings, for I fear me he is
dead long since.”
As he finished, he drew an ivory whistle from his bosom, and blew a
shrill, quavering peal that echoed through the hills. In a few moments,
two men, attired much as their comrade, appeared upon the hillside, and,
after a short explanation, one of them took the place of sentinel, while
the other two led the way over a rough path up the hillside, followed by
the traveler. Turning a sharp spur in the hill, they passed the foot of
an almost perpendicular cliff, whose face was dotted with shrubbery and
parasitic plants.
The Jarochos led the way by a series of rude steps, partly the work of
nature, partly cut by the hand of man, up the side of the ascent. It was
a precarious footing, but their eyes were true, and then, when perhaps
three hundred feet from the base, a long line of shrubbery was reached,
bordering a ledge of some ten paces in width, that led into a spacious
cavern, hollowed out of the rock.
Within this natural fort there gleamed several fires, and further from
the entrance burned several rude lamps, either stuck into a crevice or
hanging from the roof. Forms of men, women and children were walking
around the cavern, or lying by the fires in every attitude of indolent
ease, smoking, sleeping, or playing cards. The flickering gleam of the
fires but imperfectly lighting up the recesses, playing over the
picturesque forms, rendered it a weird, fantastic scene.
A bustle followed the appearance of the stranger, and the form of a
monk, as his robe proclaimed him, advanced from a rude couch in one
corner, and, after a profound obeisance, the Jarocho introduced the
subject of the visit.
“And you wish to see this Don Serapio Barana?”
“If possible, holy father, yes,” replied the stranger, in a respectfully
low voice.
“You say it is to gain news of your brother; are you sure that you have
no other object?” persisted the _padre_, keenly eyeing the traveler.
“No, your reverence, I have no other object; and I pray you, if he is
yet alive, to direct me to him.”
“It can not be. He is dead!”
“Dead? Alas, then, my poor brother, art thou dead also?” murmured the
stranger, in a half-choked voice. “But may I not inquire among these
_cavalleros_, father? They may be able to give me some clue; but if not,
then, if you will allow me, I will join your band. You smile, but I am
worn now by sickness and fatigue. In a week’s time I will engage to
stand up before your best man, with whatever weapon he may choose, and,
my life upon it, I will not be the first to cry hold!” proudly said the
traveler, drawing himself up to his full hight, and glancing half
defiantly around the crowd gathered near the entrance of the cavern.
“And you have been—”
“A soldier, father, from my fifteenth year until I started in search of
my brother; and if he is no more, I care not what becomes of me. He was
the last of my race, and there is no one to care or think of me now. But
may I question the men?”
“Yes. But if what you tell me is true about your accomplishments, I
trust you will hear nothing against your staying with us. If you lose
one brother, you will find five score as true and good,” replied the
_padre_, speaking in a clear, full voice, and, as the Jarochos cast a
quick, significant glance at each other, he saw that he was understood.
“Thanks, holy father,” replied the stranger, as he bowed over the hand
that was extended him, and noticing the effect of the last words. “If it
were not a sin for me to speak so, I would say amen to your wish. But
first my brother, then myself,” and he was about to turn away, when the
priest spoke:
“Stay, my friend; as you are about to join our band—”
“Pardon, father; if I do not find my brother Tomas.”
“Of course. But I don’t believe you will learn any thing,” and he smiled
in a significant manner. “It has been so long since, you know.”
“True, I can but hope for the best.”
“But your name?” added the _padre_.
“Is Garote Ventura.”
“Good. When you have questioned the men, come to me, and I will fit you
out as a worthy Jarocho should be,” added the _padre_.
“If I do not learn of my brother,” answered Garote, with a bow.
“True; if,” smiled the monk, as he turned away to his couch, while the
other pursued his inquiries regarding the lost one with a praiseworthy
industry.
He did hear of Tomas Ventura, and if a tithe was true that was told him,
then his brother must have been a wonderful man, surely. Every Jarocho
appeared to recollect him, told tragic anecdotes in which he was the
hero, but all coincided that he was dead; the only point, however, upon
which they were agreed.
He was killed by a knife, gun, a fall from his horse, drowned, hung, by
falling over the cliff, drank himself to death; and one Jarocho even
affirmed that upon one night he saw the devil place the poor fellow
astride of his tail, bidding him hold fast around his body, and then fly
through the air, riding upon a streak of chain lightning. Oh, yes, he
was dead of a surety, and so at length Garote Ventura returned to the
_padre_, and announced his intention of becoming one of his band of
worthies, which resolve was warmly commended, and the holy father
ordered a general carousal in honor of the new recruit.
As a preliminary, the new member was sent with a score of others to
Manterial, a little hamlet some few miles distant, with orders to
procure all the wine, brandy, and liquor that they could carry, and if
the owners demanded pay, to settle the score with a _cortante_ or
_cuchillo_, by which proceeding he considered the novice would be
perfectly initiated into the mysteries of their craft.
Although nothing more serious was shed than some liquor, the expedition
was a success, and when they returned the orgies were begun. As there
was little fear of a surprise, the sentinels were called in to
participate, for no stranger could scale the precipice, unless in broad
daylight, without giving the alarm, and the rear entrance was securely
closed. All joined in the revelry, even the women and _padre_ Gayferos,
who proved himself a veteran in the art of wine-bibbing; excelling even
among the many experts that were there.
But among them all, there was not one more uproarious, or who filled his
cup oftener, than Garote Ventura. As _padre_ Gayferos trilled out the
last words of a love song, he suddenly started and glanced around the
group. Then pointing to a low, squat-built man, he roared out in a voice
that was not entirely free from hiccoughs.
“Andrez, thou drunken rascal, come hither!”
“Drunken, by the Virgin! ’Tis pleasure to hear the kettle call the pot
black,” muttered the fellow, as he arose to his feet, and using his arms
as balancing poles, staggered toward the monk.
“Eh! what’s that you say?” demanded the monk, a little sharply, as his
ear caught the words, although he did not fully comprehend them.
“I only wish the blessed Virgin would remove this killing pain in my
back, father,” stammered the Jarocho. “See; I can not stand upright, and
it twinges so that I nearly fall down from pain.”
“Abjure the cup, my son, and it will leave you. Oh, if you could only
see yourself now, as I see you, you would feel how disgraceful is
drunkenness. Andrez—Andrez, take pattern after me, and you will be a
better man,” reprovingly quoth the _padre_, shaking his head, and
looking as solemn as an owl.
“I will, holy father, I will. If I ever get less sober than you are now,
may the devil carry me off, as he did old Ventura,” said the fellow,
assaying a facetious wink, but which only had the effect of further
distorting his naturally ugly visage. “But your will, father, your
will?”
“Yes, my thoughts wandered. I was reflecting upon the sinfulness of poor
human nature,” and as he murmured, he poured a pint of wine down the
cavity that represented his mouth. “You know where the prisoner is, good
Andrez? Yes. Well, my heart is softened at the sight of our innocent
pleasures, and I wish you to take him this bottle of wine, to drink our
healths in. Poor devil, ’tis a long time since he tasted as good. Do you
hear?”
“Yes, your excellency; but don’t you think—hadn’t I, that is—”
“_Carrai, bobo!_ what do you mean?”
“You see if the—the pain in my back, your excellency, should overcome
me, I might fall and break the bottle; which would be a pity, you know,”
stammered Andrez, swaying to and fro.
“Thou speakest well, Andrez, my son. Here, take this; and now go,”
returned the priest, as he handed the outlaw a huge leathern bottle.
This was not exactly what Andrez meant, but he knew too well the fierce
temper of _padre_ Gayferos when once he was aroused, and dared not
hesitate longer. But before he had taken a dozen steps he fell to the
ground, rolling over and over as he assayed to arise. The new member of
the Jarocho band noted this, and he staggered over to the prostrate
fellow, and by dint of much pulling and tugging, managed to raise him
erect once more; and then he muttered, in a low tone:
“Come, _compadre_, I will go with you. See; lean on me and show me the
way to turn. So. We will do it finely,” as under Andrez’ guidance he
turned to the left, after taking down one of the rude lamps, to light
their way along the rough, uneven passage.
When once out of sight of the revelers, Andrez whispered:
“_Por_ Bacchus, _’nor_ Garote, the _padre_ is cruel in sending us here,
away from the wine. Suppose we drink together? The prisoner does not
need this wine as much as we. Besides, it is a shame for us gentlemen to
wait upon him;” he held up the bottle before him, shaking it and
listening to the musical rattle of its contents.
“’Tis true, Andrez. But who is this prisoner?” eagerly asked Ventura.
“Ho, ho! that is a secret, that is known only to the holy father and me.
Why, he would burn me alive if I so much as whispered that our old
_capitan_, Don Serapo Barana, was his prisoner. No, no, _’nor_ Ventura,
that is a secret—a secret, do you hear? And although you may be a true
man, I won’t share it with you,” rambled Andrez, with a drunken leer.
“True, I was wrong, as you say,” suppressing the exultant smile that
shot over his features. “But come, we will go to the cell, and then,
after we have drank the wine, will throw the bottle inside, so the
_padre_ will find it there to-morrow, and then he will not suspect us.”
“Good! that is it. Come, your arm. That cursed pain is in my legs now.
The rheumatism in my knee joints, you know.”
In a few minutes more the men were at the end of the passage, and
holding up the lamp, Ventura saw that a massive wooden door, thickly
studded with iron nails, and secured by a huge lock and two bolts, had
been set into the solid rock. It was a good piece of work, and appeared
strong enough to resist any thing short of artillery.
“Here we are at last, and, thank the Virgin, that pain has left me,”
muttered Andrez, as he dropped to the floor, and began to remove the
stopper of the flask. “Come, friend, let us drink and be merry.”
“Stop, _’nor_ Andrez; how do you open the door?” asked Garote.
“With the key, of course,” and he cut short his speech by introducing
the mouth of the flask into his own, while the wine gurgled merrily down
his throat.
“But where is it? If you have forgotten it, we must find it, or else the
_padre_ will find us out, after all,” added his comrade, a little
anxiously.
“Here, see; I carry it in my bosom,” said Andrez, as he pulled it forth,
attached to a cord that hung around his neck.
“Is it the right one, do you think?” and as he spoke Garote adroitly cut
the string, and placing the key in the lock, turned the bolt with some
effort.
“Hold, hold, _’nor_ Garote! I must let no one touch that but myself.
Hand it here, or, by the blessed Virgin, I will blow your brains out!”
shouted Andrez, as he grasped the pistol at his belt.
“There—see, here it is. And now let us drink. Hold, will you not leave
me a drop?” as the now satisfied Jarocho again elevated the flask, and
at the same time lowered the liquor.
“Ah, that is delicious!” murmured the drunkard, as he relinquished the
bottle and wiped his mouth upon his shirt sleeve. “I wish that the
curs—holy Mother, pardon me, I mean blessed _padre_ Gayferos would send
us upon this mission every night! Don’t you _conpairano_?”
“That I do! I would not have missed this chance for a thousand _pesos_,”
warmly returned the new member, as he handed the bottle to Andrez.
“If he send the wine, yes; if not, no.”
This time Ventura did not reprove his comrade for his gluttony, but
allowed him to drink as freely and often as he pleased. After a few
attempts, ending by missing his mouth, and pouring the remainder of the
liquor down the outside of his throat, Andrez dropped the flask, and
laying his head upon it for a pillow, closed his eyes. When the loud
music that streamed from his nostrils told that he slept the heavy sleep
of the drunkard, Ventura picked up the light, and with a steadiness that
would have astonished his comrade, had he seen the movement, opened the
door and entered the little cell.
Holding the lamp above his head, so as to cast its light around him,
Garote soon perceived the form of a man crouching in one corner of the
room, his eyes glaring wildly at the intruder, as if in mortal dread.
“_Santissima Virgin!_ can this be he, once so proud and handsome!”
murmured Ventura, as he scanned the wretched-looking object before him.
The prisoner started in wonder, partly at the face of a stranger, but
more from hearing the voice of kindness and commiseration, when he
expected curses and revilings, perhaps blows.
“Who are you?” he faltered, as he shielded his eyes from the glare of
the lamp.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” returned Ventura.