AN OLD ENEMY.
Our captors were Spanish soldiers.
"Be good enough to rise and accompany us to San Felipe, señores," said the
non-commissioned officer in command of the detachment, "and if you attempt
to escape I shall blow your brains out."
"_Dios mio!_ It serves us right for not keeping a better lookout," said
Carmen, with a laugh which I thought sounded rather hollow. "We shall be
in San Felipe sooner than we expected, that is all. Lead on, sergeant; we
have a dozen good reasons for not trying to escape, to say nothing of our
strait waistcoats."
Whereupon we were marched down the hill and taken to San Felipe, two men
following with our horses, from which and other circumstances I inferred
that we had been under observation ever since our arrival in the
neighborhood. The others were doubtless under observation also; and at the
moment I thought less of our own predicament (in view of the hanging
propensities of General Griscelli, a decidedly unpleasant one) than of the
terrible surprise which awaited Mejia and his army, for, as I quickly
perceived, the Spaniards were quite on the alert, and fully prepared for
whatever might befall. The place swarmed with soldiers; sentries were
pacing to and fro on the parapets, gunners furbishing up their pieces, and
squads of native auxiliaries being drilled on a broad savanna outside the
walls.
Many of the houses were mere huts--roofs on stilts; others, "wattle and
dab;" a few, brown-stone. To the most imposing of these we were conducted
by our escort. Above the doorway, on either side of which stood a sentry,
was an inscription: "Headquarters: General Griscelli."
The sergeant asked one of the sentries if the general was in, and
receiving an answer in the affirmative he entered, leaving us outside.
Presently he returned.
"The general will see you," he said; "be good enough to come in."
We went in, and after traversing a wide corridor were ushered into a large
room, where an officer in undress uniform sat writing at a big table.
Several other officers were lounging in easy-chairs, and smoking big
cigars.
"Here are the prisoners, general," announced our conductor.
The man at the table, looking up, glanced first at Carmen, then at me.
"_Caramba!_" he exclaimed, with a stare of surprise, "you and I have met
before, I think."
I returned the stare with interest, for though I recognized him I could
hardly believe my own eyes.
"On the field of Salamanca?"
"Of course. You are the English officer who behaved so insolently and got
me reprimanded." (This in French.)
"I did no more than my duty. It was you that behaved insolently."
"Take care what you say, señor, or _por Dios_--There is no English general
to whom you can appeal for protection now. What are you doing here?"
"Not much good, I fear. Your men brought me: I had not the least desire to
come, I assure you."
"You were caught on the hill yonder, surveying the town through a glass,
and Sergeant Prim overheard part of a conversation which leaves no doubt
that you are officers in Mejia's army. Besides, you were seen coming from
the quarter where he encamped this morning. Is this so?"
Carmen and I exchanged glances. My worst fears were confirmed--we had been
betrayed.
"Is this so? I repeat."
"It is."
"And have you, an English officer who has fought for Spain, actually sunk
so low as to serve with a herd of ruffianly rebels?"
"At any rate, General Griscelli, I never deserted to the enemy."
The taunt stung him to the quick. Livid with rage he sprung from his chair
and placed his hand on his sword.
"Do you know that you are in my power?" he exclaimed. "Had you uttered
this insult in Spanish instead of in French, I would have strung you up
without more ado."
"You insulted me first. If you are a true caballero give me the
satisfaction which I have a right to demand."
"No, señor; I don't meet rebels on the field of honor. If they are common
folk I hang them; if they are gentlemen I behead them."
"Which is in store for us, may I ask?"
"_Por Dios!_ you take it very coolly. Perhaps neither."
"You will let me go, then?"
"Let you go! Let you go! Yes, I _will_ let you go," laughing like a man
who has made a telling joke, or conceived a brilliant idea.
"When?"
"Don't be impatient, señor; I should like to have the pleasure of your
company for a day or two before we part. Perhaps after--What is the
strength of Mejia's army?"
"I decline to say."
"I think I could make you say, though, if it were worth the trouble. As it
happens, I know already. He has about two thousand infantry and one
thousand cavalry. What has he come here for? Does the fool actually
suppose that with a force like that he can capture San Felipe? Such
presumption deserves punishment, and I shall give him a lesson he will not
easily forget--if he lives to remember it. Your name and quality, señor"
(to Carmen).
"Salvador Carmen, _teniente_ in the patriot army."
"I suppose you have heard how I treat patriots?"
"Yes, general, and I should like to treat you in the same way."
"You mean you would like to hang me. In that case you cannot complain if I
hang you. However I won't hang you--to-day. I will either send you to the
next world in the company of your general, or let you go with--"
"Señor Fortescue?"
"Thank you--with Señor Fortescue. That is all, I think. Take him to the
guard-house, sergeant--Stay! If you will give me your parole not to
leave the town without my permission, or make any attempt to escape, you
may remain at large, Señor Fortescue."
"For how long?"
"Two days."
As the escape in the circumstances seemed quite out of the question, I
gave my parole without hesitation, and asked the same favor for my
companion.
"No" (sternly). "I could not believe a rebel Creole on his oath. Take him
away, sergeant, and see that he is well guarded. If you let him escape I
will hang you in his stead."
Despite our bonds Carmen and I contrived to shake hands, or rather, touch
fingers, for it was little more.
"We shall meet again." I whispered. "If I had known that he would not take
your parole I would not have given mine. Let courage be our watchword.
_Hasta mañana!_"
"Pray take a seat, Señor Fortescue, and we will have a talk about old
times in Spain. Allow me to offer you a cigar--I beg your pardon, I was
forgetting that my fellows had tied you up. Captain Guzman (to one of the
loungers), will you kindly loose Mr. Fortescue? _Gracias!_ Now you can
take a cigar, and here is a chair for you."
I was by no means sure that this sudden display of urbanity boded me good,
but being a prisoner, and at Griscelli's mercy, I thought it as well to
humor him, so accepted the cigar and seated myself by his side.
After a talk about the late war in Spain, in the course of which Griscelli
told some wonderful stories of the feats he had performed there (for the
man was egregiously vain) he led the conversation to the present war in
South America, and tried to worm out of me where I had been and what I had
done since my arrival in the country. I answered him courteously and
diplomatically, taking good care to tell him nothing that I did not want
to be known.
"I see," he said, "it was a love of adventure that brought you here--you
English are always running after adventures. A caballero like you can have
no sympathy with these rascally rebels."
"I beg your pardon; I do sympathize with the rebels; not, I confess, as
warmly as I did at first, and if I had known as much as I know now, I
think I should have hesitated to join them."
"How so?"
"They kill prisoners in cold blood, and conduct war more like savages than
Christians."
"You are right, they do. Yes, killing prisoners in cold blood is a brutal
practice! I am obliged to be severe sometimes, much to my regret. But
there is only one way of dealing with a rebellion--you must stamp it out;
civil war is not as other wars. Why not join us, Señor Fortescue? I will
give you a command."
"That is quite out of the question, General Griscelli; I am not a mere
soldier of fortune. I have eaten these people's salt, and though I don't
like some of their ways, I wish well to their cause."
"Think better of it, señor. The alternative might not be agreeable."
"Whatever the alternative may be, my decision is irrevocable. And you said
just now you would let me go."
"Oh, yes, I will let you go, since you insist on it" (smiling). "All the
same, I think you will regret your decision--Mejia, of course, means to
attack us. He can have come with no other object--by your advice?"
"Certainly not."
"That means he is acting against your advice. The man is mad. He thought
of taking us by surprise, I suppose. Why, I knew he was on his way hither
two days ago! And if he does not attack us to-night--and we are quite
ready for him--I shall capture him and the whole of his army to-morrow. I
want you to go with us and witness the operation--in the character of a
spectator."
"And a prisoner?"
"If you choose to put it so."
"In that case, there is no more to be said, though for choice, I would
rather not witness the discomfiture of my friends."
Griscelli gave an ironical smile, which I took to mean that it was
precisely for this reason that he asked me to accompany him.
"Will you kindly receive Señor Fortescue, as your guest, Captain Guzman,"
he said, "take him to your quarters, give him his supper, and find him a
bed."
"_Con mucho gusto._ Shall we go now, Señor Fortescue?"
I went, and spent a very pleasant evening with Captain Guzman, and several
of his brother-officers, whom he invited to join us, for though the
Spaniards of that age were frightfully cruel to their enemies, they were
courteous to their guests, and as a guest I was treated. As, moreover,
most of the men I met had served in the Peninsular war, we had quite
enough to talk about without touching on topics whose discussion might
have been incompatible with good fellowship.
When, at a late hour, I turned into the hammock provided for me by Guzman,
it required an effort to realize that I was a prisoner. Why, I asked
myself, had Griscelli, who was never known to spare a prisoner, whose face
was both cruel and false, and who could bear me no good-will--why had this
man treated me so courteously? Did he really mean to let me go, and if so,
why; or was the promise made to the ear merely to be broken to the hope?
"Perhaps to-morrow will show," I thought, as I fell asleep; and I was not
far out, for the day after did. Guzman, whose room I shared, wakened me
long before daylight.
"The bugle has sounded the reveille, and the troops are mustering on the
plaza," he said. "You had better rise and dress. The general has sent word
that you are to go with us, and our horses are in the _patio_."
I got up at once, and after drinking a hasty cup of coffee, we mounted and
joined Griscelli and his staff.
The troops were already under arms, and a few minutes later we marched,
our departure being so timed, as I heard the general observe to one of his
aides-de-camp, that we might reach the neighborhood of the rebel camp
shortly before sunrise. His plan was well conceived, and, unless Mejia had
been forewarned or was keeping a sharper lookout than he was in the habit
of doing, I feared it would go ill with him.
The camping-ground was much better suited for concealment than defence. It
lay in a hollow in the hills, in shape like a horse-shoe, with a single
opening, looking east, and was commanded in every direction by wooded
heights. Griscelli's plan was to occupy the heights with skirmishers, who,
hidden behind the trees and bushes, could shoot down the rebels with
comparative security. A force of infantry and cavalry would meanwhile take
possession of the opening and cut off their retreat. In this way, thought
Griscelli, the patriots would either be slaughtered to a man, or compelled
to surrender at discretion.
I could not deny (though I did not say so) that he had good grounds for
this opinion. The only hope for Mejia was that, alarmed by our
disappearance, he had stationed outposts on the heights and a line of
vedettes on the San Felipe road, and fortified the entrance to the
_quebrada_. In that case the attack might be repulsed, despite the
superiority of the Spanish infantry and the disadvantages of Mejia's
position. But the probabilities were against his having taken any of these
precautions; the last thing he thought of was being attacked, and I could
hardly doubt that he would be fatally entangled in the toils which were
being laid for him.
While these thoughts were passing through my mind we were marching rapidly
and silently toward our destination, lighted only by the stars. The force
consisted of two brigades, the second of which, commanded by General
Estero, had gone on half an hour previously. I was with the first and rode
with Griscelli's staff. So far there had not been the slightest hitch, and
the Spaniards promised themselves an easy victory.
It had been arranged that the first brigade should wait, about a mile from
the entrance to the valley until Estero opened fire, and then advance and
occupy the outlet. Therefore, when we reached the point in question a halt
was called, and we all listened eagerly for the preconcerted signal.
And then occurred one of those accidents which so often mar the best laid
plans. After we had waited a full hour, and just as day began to break,
the rattle of musketry was heard on the heights, whereupon Griscelli,
keenly alive to the fact that every moment of delay impaired his chances
of success, ordered his men to fall in and march at the double. But,
unfortunately for the Spaniards, the shots we had heard were fired too
soon. The way through the woods was long and difficult, Estero's men got
out of hand; some of them, in their excitement, fired too soon, with the
result that, when the first division appeared in the valley, the patriots,
rudely awakened from their fancied security, were getting under arms, and
Mejia saw at a glance into what a terrible predicament his overconfidence
had led him. He saw also (for though an indifferent general he was no
fool) that the only way of saving his army from destruction, was to break
out of the valley at all hazards, before the Spaniards enclosed him in a
ring of fire.
Mejia took his measures accordingly. Placing his _llaneros_ and _gauchos_
in front and the infantry in the rear, he advanced resolutely to the
attack; and though it is contrary to rule for light cavalry to charge
infantry, this order, considering the quality of the rebel foot, was
probably the best which he could adopt.
On the other hand, the Spanish position was very strong, Griscelli massed
his infantry in the throat of the _quebrada_, the thickets on either side
of it being occupied in force. The reserve consisted exclusively of horse,
an arm in which he was by no means strong. Mejia was thus encompassed on
three sides, and had his foes reserved their fire and stood their ground,
he could not possibly have broken through them. But the Spaniards opened
fire as soon as the rebels came within range. Before they could reload,
the _gauchos_ charged, and though many saddles were emptied, the rebel
horse rode so resolutely and their long spears looked so formidable, that
the Spaniards gave way all along the line, and took refuge among the
trees, thereby leaving the patriots a free course.
This was the turning-point of the battle, and had the rebel infantry shown
as much courage as their cavalry the Spaniards would have been utterly
beaten; but their only idea was to get away; they bolted as fast as their
legs could carry them, an example which was promptly imitated by the
Spanish cavalry, who instead of charging the rebel horse in flank as they
emerged from the valley, galloped off toward San Felipe, followed _nolens
volens_ by Griscelli and his staff.
It was the only battle I ever saw or heard of in which both sides ran
away. If Mejia had gone to San Felipe he might have taken it without
striking a blow, but besides having lost many of his brave _llaneros_, he
had his unfortunate infantry to rally and protect, and the idea probably
never occurred to him.
As for the Spanish infantry, they stayed in the woods till the coast was
clear, and then hied them home.
Griscelli was wild with rage. To have his well-laid plans thwarted by
cowardice and stupidity, the easy victory he had promised himself turned
into an ignominious defeat at the very moment when, had his orders been
obeyed, the fortunes of the day might have been retrieved--all this would
have proved a severe trial for a hero or a saint, and certainly Griscelli
bore his reverse neither with heroic fortitude nor saintly resignation. He
cursed like the jackdaw of Rheims, threatened dire vengeance on all and
sundry, and killed one of the runaway troopers with his own hand. I
narrowly escaped sharing the same fate. Happening to catch sight of me
when his passion was at the height he swore that he would shoot at least
one rebel, and drawing a pistol from his holster pointed it at my head. I
owed my life to Captain Guzman, who was one of the best and bravest of his
officers.
"Pray don't do that, general," he said. "It would be an ill requital for
Señor Fortescue's faithful observance of his parole. And you promised to
let him go."
"Promised to let him go! So I did, and I will be as good as my word,"
returned Griscelli, grimly, as he uncocked his pistol. "Yes, he shall go."
"Now?"
"No. To-night. Meet me, both of you, near the old sugar-mill on the
savanna when the moon rises; and give him a good supper, Guzman; he will
need it."