During one of many journeyings through the remote provinces of the
Mexican republic, it was my fortune to encounter an old revolutionary
officer, in the person of Captain Castanos. From time to time as we
travelled together, he was good enough to give me an account of some of
the more noted actions of the prolonged and sanguinary war of the
Independence; and, among other narratives, one which especially
interested me was the famed battle of the _Puente de Calderon_, where
the Captain himself had fought during the whole length of a summer's
day!
Of all the leaders of the Mexican revolution, there was none in whose
history I felt so much interest as in the _priest-soldier_, Morelos--or,
as he is familiarly styled in Mexican annals, the "illustrious
Morelos"--and yet there was none of whose private life I could obtain so
few details. His public career having become historic, was, of course,
known to every one who chose to read of him. But what I desired was a
more personal and intimate knowledge of this remarkable man, who from
being the humble curate of an obscure village in Oajaca, became in a few
short months the victorious leader of a well-appointed army, and master
of all the southern provinces of New Spain.
"Can you give me any information regarding Morelos?" I asked of Captain
Castanos, as we were journeying along the route between Tepic and
Guadalaxara.
"Ah! Morelos? he was a great soldier," replied the ex-captain of
guerilleros. "In the single year of 1811, he fought no less than
twenty-six battles with the Spaniards. Of these he won twenty-two; and
though he lost the other four, each time he retreated with honour--"
"Hum! I know all that already," said I, interrupting my
fellow-traveller. "You are narrating history to me, while I want only
chronicles. In other words, I want to hear those more private and
particular details of Morelos' life which the historians have not
given."
"Ah! I understand you," said the captain, "and I am sorry that I cannot
satisfy your desires: since, during the war I was mostly engaged in the
northern provinces, and had no opportunity of knowing much of Morelos
personally. But if my good friend, Don Cornelio Lantejas, is still
living at Tepic, when we arrive there, I shall put you in communication
with him. He can tell you more about Morelos than any other living man:
since he was _aide-de-camp_ to the General through all his campaigns,
and served him faithfully up to the hour of his death."
Our conversation here ended, for we had arrived at the inn where we
intended to pass the night--the _Venta de la Sierra Madre_.
Early on the following morning, before any one had yet arisen, I left my
chamber--in a corner of which, rolled in his ample _manga_, Captain
Castanos was still soundly asleep. Without making any noise to disturb
him, I converted my coverlet into a cloak--that is, I folded my serape
around my shoulders, and walked forth from the inn. Other travellers,
along with the people of the hostelry inside, with the domestics and
muleteers out of doors, were still slumbering profoundly, and an
imposing silence reigned over the mountain platform on which the venta
stood.
Nothing appeared awake around me save the voices of the _sierras_, that
never sleep--with the sound of distant waterfalls, as they rushed
through vast ravines, keeping up, as it were, an eternal dialogue
between the highest summits of the mountains and the deepest gulfs that
yawned around their bases.
I walked forward to the edge of the table-like platform on which the
venta was built; and halting there stood listening to these mysterious
conversations of nature. And at once it appeared to me that other
sounds were mingling with them--sounds that suggested the presence of
human beings. At first they appeared like the intonations of a hunter's
horn--but of so harsh and hoarse a character, that I could scarcely
believe them to be produced by such an instrument. As a profound
silence succeeded, I began to think my senses had been deceiving me; but
once more the same rude melody broke upon my ears, in a tone that, taken
in connexion with the place where I listened to it, impressed me with an
idea of the supernatural. It had something of the character of those
horns used by the shepherds of the Swiss valleys; and it seemed to
ascend out of the bottom of a deep ravine that yawned far beneath my
feet.
I stepped forward to the extreme edge of the rock, and looked downwards.
Again the hoarse cornet resounded in my ears; and this time so near,
that I no longer doubted as to its proceeding from some human agency.
In fact, the moment after, a man's form appeared ascending from below,
along the narrow pathway that zigzagged up the face of the cliff.
I had scarce time to make this observation, when the man, suddenly
turning the angle of the rock, stood close by my side, where he halted
apparently to recover his breath.
His costume at once revealed to me that he was an Indian; though his
garments, his tall stature, and haughty mien, lent to him an aspect
altogether different from that of most of the Indians I had hitherto
encountered in Mexico. The proud air with which he bore himself, the
fiery expression of his eye, his athletic limbs, and odd apparel, were
none of them in keeping with the abject mien which now characterises the
descendants of the ancient masters of Anahuac. In the grey light of the
morning, I could see suspended from his shoulders the instrument that
had made the mysterious music--a large sea-shell--a long, slender,
curved conch, that hung glistening under his arm.
Struck with the singular appearance of this man, I could not help
entering into conversation with him; though he appeared as if he would
have passed me without speaking a word.
"You are early abroad, friend?" I remarked.
"Yes, master," he replied; "early for a man as old as I am."
I could not help regarding this as a jest; for over the shoulders of the
Indian fell immense masses of jet black hair, which seemed to give
contradiction to the statement of his being an old man.
I looked more narrowly into his countenance. His bronzed skin appeared
to cling closely to his angular features, but there were none of those
deep furrows that betray the presence of advanced age.
"How old are you?" I asked at length.
"That I cannot tell, cavallero," replied he. "I tried from the time I
was able to distinguish the dry season from that of the rains to keep an
account of my age; and I succeeded in doing so up till I was fifty.
After that, for particular reasons, I did not care to know it, and so I
left off counting."
"You say you are more than fifty years old?" and as I put this inquiry I
glanced at the long purple black tresses that hung over his shoulders.
"Nearly half as much more," was the reply. "You are looking at the
colour of my hair. There are ravens who have seen a hundred seasons of
rain without having a feather whitened. Ah! what matters the course of
years to me? A raven croaked upon the roof of my father's cabin when I
was born, at the same instant that my father had traced upon the floor
the figure of one of these birds. Well, then! of course I shall live as
long as that raven lives. What use then to keep a reckoning of years
that cannot be numbered?"
"You think, then, that your life is in some way attached to that of the
raven that perched on the paternal roof when you came into the world?"
"It is the belief of my ancestors, the Zapoteques, and it is also mine,"
seriously responded the Indian.
It was not my desire to combat the superstitions of the Zapoteques; and,
dropping the subject, I inquired from him his purpose in carrying the
conch--whether it was for whiling away his time upon the journey, or
whether there was not also connected with it some other belief of his
ancestors?
The Indian hesitated a moment before making reply.
"It is only a remembrance of my country," he said, after a short
silence. "When I hear the echoes of the Sierra repeat the sounds of my
shell, I can fancy myself among the mountains of Tehuantepec, where I
used to hunt the tiger--in pursuing my profession of _tigrero_. Or at
other times I may fancy it to be the signals of the pearl-seekers in the
Gulf, when I followed the calling of a _buzo_ (diver); for I have hunted
the sea tigers who guard the banks of pearls under the water, as I have
those that ravage the herds of cattle upon the great savannas. But time
passes, cavallero; I must say good day to you. I have to reach the
hacienda of Portezuelo by noon, and it's a long journey to make in the
time. _Puez, adios, cavallero_!"
So saying, the Indian strode off with that measured step peculiar to his
race; and was soon lost to my sight, as he descended into the ravine on
the opposite side of the plateau.
As I returned towards the inn I could hear the prolonged notes of his
marine trumpet rising up out of the chasm, and reverberating afar off
against the precipitous sides of the Sierra Madre.
"What the devil is all this row about?" inquired Captain Ruperto
Castanos, as he issued forth from the venta.
I recounted to him the interview I had just had; and the singular
communications I had received from the Indian.
"It don't astonish me," said he; "the Zapoteques are still more pagan
than Christian, and given to superstitious practices to a greater degree
than any other Indians in Mexico. Our Catholic _curas_ in their
villages are there only for the name of the thing, and as a matter of
formality. The business of the worthy padres among them must be a
perfect sinecure. I fancy I understand what the fellow meant, well
enough. Whenever a Zapoteque woman is about to add one to the number of
their community, the expectant father of the child assembles all his
relations in his cabin; and, having traced out the figures of certain
animals on the floor, he rubs them out one after another in their turn.
That which is being blotted out, at the precise moment when the child is
born, is called its _tona_. They believe that, ever after, the life of
the newborn is connected in some mysterious manner with that of the
animal which is its _tona_; and that when the latter dies so will the
former! The child thus consecrated to the tona, while growing up, seeks
out some animal of the kind, takes care of it, and pays respect to it,
as the negroes of Africa do to their _fetish_."
"It is to be presumed, then, that the Indian father will make choice
only of such animals as may be gifted with longevity?"
The captain made no reply to my suggestion, farther than to say that the
Zapoteque Indians were a brave race, easily disciplined, and out of whom
excellent soldiers had been made during the war of the Revolution.
After a hasty _desayuno_ at the venta, my travelling companion and I
resumed our journey; and, crossing the second great chain of the Mexican
Andes, at the end of six days of fatiguing travel we reached the ancient
town of Tepic.
Here it was necessary for me to remain some time, awaiting the arrival
of important letters which I expected to receive from the capital of
Mexico.
During the first week of my stay at Tepic, I saw but very little of my
fellow-voyager--who was all the time busy with his own affairs, and most
part of it absent from the little _fonda_ where we had taken up our
abode. What these affairs might be, God only knows; but I could not
help thinking that the worthy ex-captain of guerilleros carried on his
commercial transactions, as in past times he had his military ones--a
little after the partisan fashion, and not altogether in accordance with
legal rules.
After all, it was no affair of mine. What most concerned me, was that
with all his running about he had not yet been able to meet with his
friend, Don Cornelio Lantejas--whom no one in Tepic seemed to know
anything of--and I was beginning to suspect that the existence of this
individual was as problematical as the business of the captain himself,
when a lucky chance led to the discovery of the ex-aide-de-camp of
Morelos.
"Don Ruperto appears to have gone crazy," said Dona Faustina, our
hostess of the fonda, one morning as I seated myself to breakfast.
"Why, Dona Faustina?" I inquired.
"Because, Cavallero," replied she, evidently piqued at the captain's
disregard of her hospitable board, "he is hardly ever here at meal
times, and when he does show himself, it is so late that the _tortillas
enchiladas_ are quite cold, and scarce fit to eat."
"Ah, senora!" replied I, by way of excusing the irregularity of the
captain's habits, "that is not astonishing. An old soldier of the
Revolution is not likely to be very punctual about his time of eating."
"That is no reason at all," rejoined the hostess. "We have here, for
instance, the good _presbitero_, Don Lucas de Alacuesta, who was an
insurgent officer through the whole campaign of the illustrious Morelos,
and yet he is to-day a very model of regularity in his habits."
"What! an officer of Morelos, was he?"
"Certainly; all the world knows that."
"Do you chance to know another old officer of Morelos, who is said to
live here in Tepic, Don Cornelio Lantejas?"
"Never heard of him, Senor."
At this moment Don Ruperto's voice sounded outside, announcing his
return from one of his matutinal expeditions.
"To the devil with your tortillas and black beans!" cried he, rushing
into the room, and making answer to the reproaches of his hostess. "No,
Dona Faustina--I have breakfasted already; and what is more, I shall
dine to-day as a man should dine--with viands at discretion, and wine,
as much as I can drink, of the best vintage of Xeres! I have
breakfasted to-day, good clerical fashion. Who with, do you think?"
asked he, turning to me.
"Don Lucas de Alacuesta, perhaps?"
"Precisely; otherwise Don Cornelio Lantejas, who, on changing his
profession, has made a slight alteration in his name; and who, but for a
lucky chance, I should never have found till the day of judgment, since
the worthy _presbitero_ hardly ever stirs out from his house. Who would
have believed that an old soldier of the Independence should so change
his habits? In fact, however, we have had so many priests turned
officers during the Revolution, that it is only natural one officer
should become a priest, by way of compensation."
In continuation, Don Ruperto announced to me, that we were both invited
to dine with his old acquaintance; and further, that the latter had
promised to place at my disposition such souvenirs of the illustrious
Morelos as I desired to be made acquainted with.
I eagerly accepted the invitation; and in three hours after under the
conduct of the captain, I entered the domicile of the worthy padre, Don
Lucas de Alacuesta. It was a large house, situated near the outskirts
of the town, with an extensive garden, enclosed by a high wall, rendered
still higher by a stockade of the organ cactus that grew along its top.
We found our host awaiting us--a thin little man, of some fifty years of
age, nimble in his movements, and extremely courteous and affable. He
appeared to be one who occupied himself, much less with the affairs of
his parish, than with the cultivation of his garden, and the
preservation of entomological specimens--of which he possessed a
bountiful collection.
Nothing either in his speech or features, as in those of Captain
Castanos, recalled the _ex-militario_, who had borne a conspicuous part
in the long and bloody campaigns of the revolutionary war.
It is not necessary to give any details of the dinner--which was after
the fashion of the Mexican _cuisine_, and excellent of its kind.
Neither shall I repeat the conversation upon general topics; but enter
at once upon those scenes described by the ex-aide-de-camp of Morelos,
and that of which our drama has been constructed.