XIII.

These few years of which the flight has been thus briefly noted, had

wrought a subtle change in the appearance of Tres Hermanos as well as in

the life of its inhabitants. Gradually there came over it that almost

indescribable suggestion of absenteeism which falls upon a dwelling when

there is death within, and which is wholly different from the careless

untidiness of a house temporarily closed. True, there was movement still

at Tres Hermanos,—people came and went, the fields were tilled, the

herds of horses roamed upon the hillside, the cattle lowed in the

pastures, the village wore its accustomed appearance of squalid plenty,

the children played at every doorway, the same numbers of heavily-laden

mules passed in at the house-gates, the granaries were as richly

stored,—and yet, even to the casual observer, there was a lack. At

first, one would attribute it wholly to the pile of deserted buildings

to the west. No smoke ever issued from the tall stack of the

reduction-works; the lizards ran unmolested upon the walls, which

already had crumbled in a place or two, affording entrance to a few

adventurous goats, which browsed upon the herbage that sprang up in the

court, and even around the great stones in the reduction-sheds. But

turning the eyes from these, there was something desolate in the

appearance of the great house itself. The upper windows opening upon the

country were always closed, dust gathered in the balcony where Doña

Isabel had been wont to stand, and a rose, which had long striven

against neglect, waved its slender tendrils disconsolately in the

evening breeze. Some one pathetically calls a closed window the dropped

eyelid of a house; and so seemed those barred shutters of cedar, upon

which beat the last rays of the setting sun.

The great event of the American War had despoiled Tres Hermanos of many

of its young men. Others had from time to time been drawn into the

broils that followed, and which had been augmented by the dictatorship

of Santa Anna; yet the estate itself had escaped invasion. Its great

storehouses of grain remained intact, its fields were untrodden by the

horses of soldiery either hostile or friendly; but a change menaced

it,—a hoarse murmur as of the sea seemed to gather and break against the

bulwark of mountains that environed it. News of the great events of the

day penetrated the remote valley, and with them vague apprehensions and

disquiet. Even the laborers in the fields felt the oppression of the

storm which was raging without, and which threatened to break upon them.

Their hearts quaked; they knew not what an hour might bring forth. For

the first time they realized that the great events which had been

transpiring, and were still in progress beyond their cordon of hills,

meant more to them than food for gossip, or an attraction to some idle

boy to whom army life meant a frolic and freedom from work.

These events had followed one another in such rapid succession, and were

seemingly so contradictory, that to the onlooker they appeared

irrational, childish, even traitorous. But in truth they were the vague,

blind outstretchings of a people groping for self-government, for a

liberty and peace which they were both by nature and training as yet

unprepared to enjoy. The thraldom of Spain had left them madly impatient

of fetters, yet they clung to the stake to which they had been chained.

Were the prop called King or President, an individual rather than

abstruse principles was demanded to uphold them. This it was which in

the chaos that followed the war with the United States led them to

recall the man whom they had exiled,—the man who had failed them in

their greatest need, yet whose unaccountable ascendency over the minds

of the masses led them to turn to him again as a deliverer, and whose

triumphant march through the land intensified a thousand times the

prevailing misery. As one of the historians of Mexico says of Santa

Anna,—

“On his lips had been heard the words of brotherhood and

reconciliation. The majority had believed in them, because they

thought that in the solitude of exile the experience of years and the

spectacle of his afflicted country must have purified and instructed

the man. It is impossible to say whether his was hypocrisy or a flash

of good faith; but certain it is he deceived those who believed, and

silenced those who had no faith in his words, and none can imagine the

days of distress and mourning which followed.

“His term of office was to last a year; his promises were to redeem

his nation from the yoke of slavery, to announce a code of wise and

just measures which should insure its happiness and prosperity. A

hopeless task, perhaps, in the midst of a nation distracted by years

of foreign and civil wars; but at least an attempt was possible. But

when once the sweets of power were tasted, all sense of honor and

patriotism was lost in the intoxication of personal ambition. Beguiled

by promises of protection of their interests, so often and so

violently assailed by the Liberal and Conservative parties, the clergy

and their adherents in all parts of the Republic secured the passage

of an Act which declared him perpetual ruler, with the title of Serene

Highness, with his will as his only law, and his caprices his only

standard.”

Those not lost in the inconceivable stupor which the deadly upas in

their midst cast far and near, opened wide eyes of amaze. A trumpet cry

rang through the land! Liberals and Conservatives, even the less bigoted

of the clerical party, sprang to arms. The entire nation, grieving and

reduced to misery by the loss of ninety thousand men who had been

dragged from their homes to support the pomp and power of the tyrant, to

become a prey upon the land, and upon the helpless families of whom they

should naturally have been the support, had refused long to be dazzled

by the spectacle of military pomp, or to be beguiled by the _fiestas_

and processions which in every town and village made the administration

one that appeared a prolonged carnival and madness. These continued

insults to the public misery; the daily proscriptions of men who dared

to raise the voice or write a line against the Dictator or his senseless

policy; the oppressions of the army; the cold, cruel, implacable

espionage which made life unendurable,—these wrought quickly their

inevitable consequences among a people accustomed to disorder and

revolutions, and who in their blind, irrational way longed for liberty.

Disgust and detestation of the dictatorship became general. As suddenly

as it had sprung into being it was met and crushed. Rebellions sprang up

on every hand; the populace rose in mass; the statues of Santa Anna were

thrown down in the streets, his portraits stoned; the houses of his

adherents were sacked, their carriages destroyed. The popular fury

culminated in the practical measure of the promulgation of the plan of

Ayutla, which condemned to perpetual exile the ambitious demagogue who

had disappointed and betrayed all parties, mocking with cruel levity his

country’s woes, and which declared for the establishment of a Republic

based upon the broadest platform of civil rights. Gomez Farias gave form

to this act; but Ignacio Comonfort became its soul when he proclaimed it

in Acapulco, and in the almost inaccessible recesses of the South raised

the standard of a rebellion, which rapidly extending throughout the land

hurled from its pedestal the idol of clay, that for a brief moment had

been taken for gold, to place in its stead a new favorite.

Then another exile returned to his country, heralded by neither trumpets

nor acclamations. Calm, astute, watchful, he took his place amid the

revolutionary forces; but without seeming effort, from a follower he

became a leader. His was the brain that was to develop from the

imperfect plan of Ayutla liberties more daring and precious than men had

learned to dream of to that hour. Comonfort the last President was the

figure toward which all eyes turned; but behind him stood the quiet,

insignificant Indian, successful general now, Benito Juarez, shaping the

destinies of those who ignored or despised him.

Comonfort was daring, impulsive, utterly devoid of physical fear; a man

of action, prone to plunge into difficulties, yet ready to compromise

where he could not fight, antagonistic to the temporal power of the

Church, yet superstitiously bound by its traditions, he was at once the

initiator and the enemy of reform. Finding himself in triumphant

opposition to the clergy, he recklessly attacked their most cherished

institutions; to open a passage for his troops he threw down their

finest convent; to pay his soldiery he levied upon their treasures. Yet

he trembled before their denunciations,—upon one day sending the bishop

into exile; on the next, he cowered before the meanest priest who

threatened him with the Virgin’s ire. The terrors of excommunication

unnerved him. Scared by his own audacity; unable to quell the storm he

had roused; viewing with dismay the reaction that his ill-considered

boldness had created in the minds of a people dominated by ghostly

fears, even while they groaned under the material oppressions of

priestcraft; led beyond his depth by unscrupulous counsellors, or by

those who like Juarez had ideas beyond the epoch in which he

lived,—Comonfort, while he maintained a kingly state, looked forth upon

the new aspect of distraction which his country wore, and vainly sought

a method of compromise to evoke order from chaos. He who had dared all

physical dangers shrank before a revolution of sentiment. His

vacillating demeanor—above all his conciliations of the clergy whom he

had so short a time before defied—awoke distrust on every hand.

Such was the political aspect, so far as known at Tres Hermanos, upon

the eve when the first straggling band of soldiery crossed the peaceful

valley, and its doors opened to receive the first of those armed guests,

which in the near future were to become so numerous and so dreaded.

In one far corner of the great house there was a little balcony with its

high iron railing; and behind it, scarce reaching to its top, stood two

children on tip-toe, looking with wide eyes upon the glory of the

purpling mountains, and then with mundane curiosity dropping them upon

the more homely attractions within hearing as well as sight. And upon

that special afternoon in October these chanced to be of a somewhat

unusual character; for across the plain rode one of those predatory

bands, which in those wild days sprang up like magic even in the most

isolated regions,—the arid mountains and the fertile plains alike

furnishing their quota of material, which blindly, ignorantly, but for

that none the less furiously, became sacrifices to the ambition of a

score or more contesting chiefs. Yet amid the cupidity,

unscrupulousness, and barbarity of these chiefs still lingered the

spirit of liberty, which though drenched in blood, and bound down by

ecclesiastical as well as military despotism, was yet to rise

triumphant, perhaps after its years of long struggle stronger, purer,

holier than the world before had known it.

But license rather than liberty seemed to animate those wild spirits

who, invigorated after a long day’s march by the sight of a halting

place, urged their steeds with wild shouts and blows with the flat side

of their sabres, as well as with applications from their clanking spurs,

across the plain, where scattered at intervals might be seen the

laggards of the party, chiefly women, on mule or donkey back, with their

cooking implements hanging from the panniers upon which they squatted in

security and comfort, nursing their babies or quieting the more

fractious older children, as the animals they rode paced quietly on or

broke into a jog-trot at their own wills.

It was a cause of great excitement and delight to the children in the

balcony to see the soldiers—most of them still arrayed in their ranchero

dress of buff leather, but some of them resplendent in blue-and-red

cloth, with stripes of gilt upon their arms and caps—stop at the huts

along the principal street or lane of the village, and laughingly take

possession, bidding Trinita and Francisca and Florencia, and the rest of

them, to go or stay as it pleased them. Some of the women were

frightened and began to cry and bewail, but others found acquaintances

among the new arrivals; and there was much laughing and talking, in the

midst of which two personages who appeared to be the leaders of the

party, and who were followed by a dozen or more companions and servants,

rode up to the hacienda gates, and one, scarcely pausing for an answer

from the astonished Pedro whom he saluted by name, rode into the

courtyard, whither he was followed by the gate-keeper, who with stoical

calm yet evident amazement saluted him as Don Vicente; and holding his

stirrup as he dismounted added in a low voice,—

“The Saints defend us, Don Vicente! The sight of you is like rain in

May,—it will bless the whole year! Heaven grant your followers leave

untouched the harvest of new maize! Don Rafael would go out of his

senses if it were broached and trampled on by this rabble,—begging your

Grace’s pardon a thousand times!”

Don Vicente, as the young man was called, laughed as he stamped his feet

on the brick pavement until his spurs and the chains and buttons on his

riding suit clanked again,—though he looked half sadly, half furtively

around.

“Have no fear, Pedro good friend, the men have their orders. The

General, José Ramirez, is not to be trifled with;” and he glanced at his

companion, a man older than himself, but still in the prime of life, who

had also dismounted and was shaking hands with Don Rafael, with many

polite expressions of pleasure at meeting the courageous and prudent

administrador of Tres Hermanos.

These compliments were returned with rather pallid lips by Don Rafael,

who however upon being recognized by Don Vicente, who advanced to

embrace him with the cordiality of a friend, though with something of

the condescension of a superior, regained his composure with the

rapidity natural to a man who having fancied himself in some peril finds

himself under the protection of a powerful and generous patron. He

hastened in the name of Doña Isabel to place everything the hacienda

contained at the disposal of the visitors, making a mental reservation

of the new maize and sundry fine horses that happened to be in the

courtyards.

Chinita, who had pushed her way through the crowd of children and

half-grown idlers that had been attracted to the court, and were gazing

in silent and opened-mouthed wonderment and admiration at the imposing

personage called the General José Ramirez, was so absorbed in the

contemplation of his half-military, half-equestrian bravery of riding

trousers of stamped leather trimmed with silver buttons, and wide felt

hat gorgeous with gold and silver cords and lace, his epauletted jacket,

and scarlet sash bristling with silver-handled pistols and stilletto,

that she took no heed when a servant came to lead away the charger upon

which the object of her admiration had been mounted, and so narrowly

escaped being knocked down and trampled upon.

“Have a care thou!” cried Don Vicente, as he sprang forward and clutched

the child by the arm, drawing her out of danger, while a score of

voices—the General’s perhaps the most indifferent among them—reiterated

epithets of abuse to the servant and admonition to the child. In the

midst of the commotion, Don Rafael conducted the two officers to rooms

which were hastily assigned them.

As they disappeared, Chinita’s eyes followed them. She was not

especially grateful for her escape: it was not the first time she had

been snatched from beneath the feet of a restive horse; the incident was

natural enough to her, and perhaps for this reason her rescuer was not

specially interesting to her mind. Somewhat to her disgust, an hour

later, when she had managed to steal unobserved into the supper-room,

where she crouched in a corner, she saw Rosario and Chata from their

seats at their mother’s side regarding the young officer with amiable

smiles,—Rosario with infantile coquetry, drooping her long lashes

demurely over her soft dreamy black eyes; and Chata, with her orbs of a

nondescript gray, frankly though coyly taking in every detail of his

face and dress, while they averted themselves as if startled or repelled

from the dark countenance of his companion. It might have been thought

that Doña Feliz shared her dread, for more than once she looked at the

General with an expression of perplexity and aversion, as he lightly

entertained Doña Rita with an account of his family and his own

exploits,—topics strangely chosen for a Mexican, but which seemed

natural rather than egotistical when lightly and wittily expatiated upon

by this gay soldier of fortune.

Meanwhile, Don Vicente Gonzales was talking in a low voice to Doña

Feliz. He ate little and drank only some water mixed with red wine,

while Don Rafael and the General Ramirez partook freely of more generous

stimulants, growing more talkative as the evening advanced; and at last,

as the ladies rose from the table, and Doña Rita went with the children

to the upper rooms, the two walked away together to inspect the horses

and talk of the grand reforms initiated by Comonfort, which in reality

had but filled the country with discontent and bloodshed. The poison of

personal ambition was working in the new President slowly—as it had done

more rapidly in his renowned predecessor Santa Anna—the change from the

patriot to the demagogue. He who had talked and worked and fought for

the liberties of Mexico, dallied with the chains he should have broken.