EL AHUEHUELT.
The count de Lhorailles entered the great Del Norte desert under the
guidance of Cucharés. During the first day all went on famously; the
weather was magnificent--the provisions more than plentiful. With their
innate carelessness the Frenchmen forgot their past fears, and laughed
at the alarm which the Mexican peons did not cease manifesting; for,
better informed, they did not conceal the terror which the prolonged
stay of the company in this terrible region caused them.
The days were spent in the desert in wandering purposelessly in search
of the Apaches, who had at length become invisible. At times they
perceived an Indian horseman in the distance, apparently mocking them,
who presently came up close to their lines. Boot and saddle was sounded;
everybody mounted, and pursued this phantom horseman, who, after
allowing them to follow him for a long time, suddenly disappeared like a
vision.
This mode of life, however, through its very monotony, began to grow
insipid and insupportable. To see nothing but grey sand, ever sand--not
a bird or a wild beast--tawny, weather-worn rocks--a few lofty
ahuehuelts--a species of cedar, with long bare branches, covered with a
greyish moss, hanging in heavy festoons--had nothing very amusing about
it. The troop began to grow dispirited. The reflection of the sun on the
sand caused ophthalmia; the water, decomposed by the heat, was no longer
drinkable; the provisions were spoiling; and scurvy had commenced its
ravages among the soldiers. This state of things was growing
intolerable: measures must be taken to get out of it as rapidly as
possible.
The count formed his officers into a council; and it was composed of
Lieutenants Martin Leroux and Diégo Léon, Sergeant Boileau, Blas
Vasquez, and Cucharés. These five persons, presided over by the count,
took their seats on bales, while a short distance off, the soldiers,
reclining on the ground, tried to shelter themselves beneath the shadow
of their picketed horses.
It was urgent to assemble the council, for the company was rapidly
demoralising; there was revolt in the air, and complaints had already
been openly uttered. The execution at the Casa Grande was completely
forgotten; and, if a remedy were not soon found, no one knew what
terrible consequences this general dissatisfaction might not entail.
"Gentlemen," the Count de Lhorailles said, "I have assembled you in
order to consult with you on the means to put a stop to the despondency
which has fallen on our company during the last few days. The
circumstances are so serious that I shall feel obliged by your giving me
your frank opinion. The general welfare is at stake, and in such a state
of things each has a right to express his opinion without fear of
wounding the self-love of anyone. Speak; I am listening to you. You
first, Sergeant Boileau: as the lowest in rank, you must take the word
first."
The sergeant was an old African soldier, knowing his duties perfectly--a
thorough trooper in the fullest sense of the word; but we must confess
that he was nothing of an orator. At this direct challenge from his
chief he smiled, blushed like a girl, let his head droop, opened an
enormous mouth, and stopped short. The count, perceiving his
embarrassment, kindly urged him to speak. At length, after many an
effort, the sergeant managed to begin in a hoarse and perfectly
indistinct voice.
"Hang it, captain!" he said, "I can understand that the situation is not
at all pleasant; but what is to be done? A man is a trooper, or he is
not. Hence my opinion is that you ought to act as you think proper; and
we are here to obey you in every respect, as is our peremptory duty,
without any subsequent or offensive after-thought."
The officers could not refrain from laughing at the worthy sergeant's
profession of faith, as he stopped all ashamed.
"It is your turn, capataz," the captain said. "Give us your opinion."
Blas Vasquez fixed his burning eyes on the count.
"Do you really ask it frankly?" he said.
"Certainly I do."
"Then listen," he said in a firm voice, and with an accent bearing
conviction. "My opinion is that we are betrayed; that it is impossible
for us to leave this desert, where we shall all perish in pursuing
invisible enemies, who have caused us to fall into a trap which will
hold us all."
These words produced a great impression on the hearers, who understood
their perfect truth. The captain shook his head thoughtfully.
"Don Blas," he said, "you bring, then, a heavy accusation against
someone. Have you conscientiously weighed the purport of your words?"
"Yes," he replied; "but--"
"Remember that we can admit no vague suppositions. Things have reached
such a pitch that, if you wish us to give you the credence you
doubtlessly deserve, you must bring your charges precisely, and not
shrink from pronouncing any name if it be necessary."
"I shall shrink from nothing, señor conde. I know all the responsibility
I take on myself. No consideration, however powerful it may be, will
make me conceal what I regard as a sacred duty."
"Speak, then, in Heaven's name; and God grant that your words may not
compel me to inflict an exemplary chastisement on one of our comrades."
The capataz collected himself for a moment. All anxiously awaited his
explanation: Cucharés especially was suffering from an emotion which he
found great difficulty in concealing. Blas Vasquez at length spoke
again, while keeping his eye so fixed on the count that the latter began
to understand that he and his men were the victims of some odious
treachery.
"Señor conde," Blas said, "we Mexicans have a law from which we never
depart--a law which, indeed, is inscribed in the hearts of all honest
men. It is this: in the same way that the pilot is responsible for the
ship intrusted to him to take into port, the pioneer responds with his
person for the safety of the people he undertakes to guide in the
desert. In this case no discussion is possible: either the guide is
ignorant, or he is not. If he is ignorant, why, against the opinion of
everybody, has he forced us to enter the desert, while taking on himself
the entire responsibility of our journey? Why, if he be not ignorant,
did he not guide us straight across the desert as he agreed to do,
instead of leading us at venture in pursuit of an enemy who, he knows as
well as I do, is never stationary in the desert, but traverses it at his
horse's utmost speed when forced to enter it? Hence on the guide alone
must weigh the blame of all that has happened, as he was master of
events, and arranged them as he thought proper."
Cucharés, more and more perturbed, knew not what countenance to keep;
his emotion was visible to all.
"What reply have you to make?" the captain asked him.
Under circumstances like the present, the man attacked has only two
means of defence--to feign indignation or contempt. Cucharés chose the
latter. Summoning up all his boldness and impudence, he raised his
voice, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and answered in an ironical
tone,--
"I will not do Don Blas the honour of discussing his remarks: there are
certain accusations which an honest man scorns to repel. It was my duty
to act in conformity with the orders of the captain, who alone commands
here. Since we have been in the desert we have lost twenty men, killed
by the Indians or by disease. Can I be logically rendered responsible
for this misfortune? Do I not run the same risks as all of you of
perishing in the desert? Is it in my power to escape the fate that
threatens you? If the captain had merely ordered me to cross the desert,
we should have done so long ago: he told me that he wished to catch the
Apaches up, and I was compelled to obey him."
These reasons, specious as they were, were still accepted as good by the
officers. Cucharés breathed again, but he had not yet finished with the
capataz.
"Good!" the latter said. "Strictly speaking, you might be right in your
remarks, and I would put faith in your statements, had I not other and
graver charges to bring against you."
The lepero shrugged his shoulders once more.
"I know, and can supply proof, that, by your remarks and insinuations,
you sow discord and rebellion among the peons and troopers. This
morning, before the _réveillé_, believing that no one saw you, you rose,
and with your dagger pierced ten of the fifteen water skins still left
us. The noise I made in running toward you alone prevented the entire
consummation of your crime. At the moment when the captain gave us
orders to assemble, I was about to warn him of what yon had done. What
have you to answer to this? Defend yourself, if it be possible."
All eyes were fixed on the lepero. He was livid. His eyes, suffused with
blood, were haggard. Before it was possible to guess his intention, he
drew a pistol and fired at the capataz, who fell without uttering a cry;
then with a tiger-bound he leaped on his horse, and started at full
speed. There was an indescribable tumult. All rushed in pursuit of the
lepero.
"Down with the murderer!" the captain shouted, urging his men by voice
and gestures to seize the villain.
The Frenchmen, rendered furious by this pursuit, began firing on
Cucharés as on a wild beast. For a long time he was seen galloping his
horse in every direction, and seeking in vain to quit the circle in
which the troopers had inclosed him. At length he tottered in his
saddle, tried to hold on by his horse's mane, and rolled in the sand,
uttering a parting yell of fury. He was dead!
This event caused extreme excitement among the soldiers: from this
moment they felt that they were betrayed, and began to see their
position as it really was--that is to say, desperate. In vain did the
captain try to restore them a little courage; they would listen to
nothing, but yielded to that despair which disorganises and paralyses
everything. The count gave the order for departure, and they set out.
But whither should they go? In what direction turn? No trace was
visible. Still they marched on, rather to change their place than in the
hope of emerging from the sepulchre of sand in which they believed
themselves eternally buried. Eight days passed away--eight
centuries---during which the adventurers endured the most frightful
tortures of thirst and hunger. The troop no longer existed; there were
neither chiefs nor soldiers; it was a legion of hideous phantoms, a
flock of wild beasts ready to devour each other on the first
opportunity.
They had been reduced to splitting the ears of the horses and mules in
order to drink the blood.
Wandering now on this side, now on that, deceived by the mirage, dazzled
by the burning sunbeams, they were a prey to a hideous despair. Some
laughed with a silly air; and these were the happiest, for they no
longer felt their sufferings: they were mad. Others brandished their
weapons furiously, raising their fists, with menaces and curses to
heaven, which, like an immense plate of red-hot iron, seemed the
implacable dome of their sandy tomb. Some, rendered raging by suffering,
blew out their brains, while mocking their comrades who were too
weak-minded to follow their example.
The French are, perhaps, the bravest nation in existence; but, on the
other hand, the easiest to demoralise. If their impulse is irresistible
in the onward march; it is the same when they give way. Nothing will
stop them--neither reasoning nor coercive measures. Extreme in
everything, the Frenchman is more than a man, or less than a child.
The Count de Lhorailles, gloomy and heart-broken, surveyed the ruin of
all his hopes. Ever the first to march the last to rest, not eating a
mouthful till he was certain that all his comrades had their share, he
watched with unexampled tenderness and care over these poor soldiers,
who, strangely enough, in the misery in which they were plunged, never
dreamed of addressing a reproach to him.
Of Blas Vasquez' peons the majority were dead. The rest had sought
safety in flight; that is, they had gone a little further on to seek a
hidden tomb. All those who remained faithful to the captain were
Europeans, principally Frenchmen, brave Dauph'yeers, utterly ignorant of
the way to combat and conquer the implacable enemy against whom they
struggled--the desert! Of the two hundred and forty-five men of which
the squadron was composed on its entering the Del Norte, one hundred and
thirty-three still survived, if we allow that these haggard, fleshless
spectres were men.
The most atrocious pain which a man can suffer in the desert is the
frightful malady called _calentura_ by the Mexicans. The calentura! That
temporary madness, which makes you see, during its intermittent attacks,
the most dainty and delicious dishes, the most limpid water, the most
exquisite wines; which satiates and enervates you; and, when it leaves
you, renders you more desponding, more broken, than before, for you
retain the remembrance of all you possessed during your dream.
One day, at length, the wretched men, crushed by misery and torture of
every description, refused to go further, and resolved to die where
accident had led them. They lay down in the torrid sand, beneath the
shadow of a few ahuehuelts, with the firm will of remaining motionless
until death, which they had summoned so loudly, came at length to
deliver them from their woes. The sun set in a mist of purple and gold,
to the sound of the curses and imprecations of these wretched men who,
expecting nothing more, hoping nothing more, had only retained the cruel
instincts of the wild beast.
Still the night succeeded to day--gradually calmness took the place of
disorder. Sleep, that great consoler, weighed down the heavy eyelids of
the men, who, if they did not sleep, fell into state of somnolency,
which brought a truce to their fearful tortures, if only for a few
moments. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, a formidable sound
aroused them--a fiery whirlwind passed over them--the thunder burst
forth in terrific peals. The sky was black as ink--not a star, not a
moonbeam--nothing but dense gloom, which hid the nearest objects from
sight.
The poor fellows rose in great terror; they dragged themselves on as
well as they could one after the other, crouching together like a flock
of sheep surprised by a storm, wishing, with that inborn egotism of man,
to die together.
"A temporal, a temporal!" all shouted with an expression of voice
impossible to render.
It was in reality the temporal, that fearful scourge, which was
unloosing all its fury, and passing over the desert to subvert its
surface. The wind howled with extraordinary force, raising clouds of
dust, which whirled round with extreme velocity, and formed enormous
spouts, that, ran along and suddenly burst with a frightful crash. Men
and animals caught in the tornado were whisked away into a space like
straws.
"Down on the ground!" the count shouted in a tremendous voice; "Down on
the ground. 'Tis the African simoom! Down, all of you who care for
life!"
Strange to say, all these men, weighed down with atrocious sufferings,
obeyed their chiefs orders like children, so great is the terror death
inspires in the darkness. They buried their faces in the sand, in order
to avoid the burning blast of air that passed over them. The animals
crouched on the ground, with outstretched necks, instinctively followed
their example. At intervals, when the wind granted a moment's respite to
these unhappy men, whom it took a delight in torturing, cries and groans
of agony could be heard, mingled with blasphemies and ardent prayers,
that rose from the crowd stretched trembling on the earth. The hurricane
raged through the entire night with ever increasing fury; toward morning
it gradually grew calmer; by sunrise it had exhausted all its strength,
and rushed toward other regions.
The aspect of the desert was completely changed. Where valleys had been
on the previous night were now mountains; the sparse trees, twisted,
uprooted, or burned by the hurricane, displayed their blackened and
denuded skeletons; no trace of a footpath, no sign of man; all was flat,
smooth, and even as a mirror. The French had been reduced to sixty men;
the others had been carried off or swallowed up, and there was no hope
of discovering the slightest sign of them: the sand was stretched over
them like an immense greyish shroud.
The first feeling the survivors experienced was terror; the second,
despair; and then the groans and complaints broke out again with renewed
strength. The count, gloomy and sad, regarded these poor people with an
expression of the tenderest pity. Suddenly he burst out into a feverish
laugh, and going up to his horse, which had hitherto, by a species or
miracle, escaped disaster, he saddled it, while gently patting it and
humming a wild tune between his teeth.
His companions watched him with a feeling of vague terror, for which
they could not account. Although they were so miserable, their captain
still represented superior intellect and a firm will, those two forces
which have so much power over coarse natures, even when circumstances
have forced them to deny them. In their wretched condition they
collected round their chief, like children seek shelter on their
mother's breast. He had ever consoled them, giving them an example of
courage and abnegation: thus, when they saw him acting as he was doing,
they had a foreboding of evil.
When his horse was saddled the count leaped lightly on its back, and for
a few minutes he made the animal curvet, though it had the greatest
difficulty in keeping on its feet.
"Hold, my fine fellows!" he suddenly shouted. "Come up here! You had
better listen to some good advice--a parting hint I wish to give you
before I go."
The soldiers dragged themselves up as well as they could, and surrounded
him.
The count turned a glance of satisfaction around.
"Existence is a miserable farce, is it not?" he said, bursting into a
laugh; "and it is often a heavy chain to drag about. How many times,
since we have been wandering about this desert, have I had the thought
which I now utter openly! Well, I confess to you, as long as I had a
hope of saving you, I struggled courageously: that hope I no longer
possess. As we must die of want within a few days--a few hours,
perhaps--I prefer to finish it at once. Believe me, you had better
follow my example. It is soon done, as you shall see."
While uttering the last words he drew a pistol from his waist belt. At
this moment cries were heard.
"What is it? What is the matter?"
"Look, captain! People are coming at last to our help: we are saved!"
Sergeant Boileau exclaimed, rising like a spectre by his side, and
seizing his arm.
The count freed himself with a smile.
"You are mad, my poor comrade," he said, looking in the direction
indicated, where a cloud of dust really rose, and was rapidly
approaching; "no one can come to our aid. We have not even," he added
with bitter irony, "the resource of the shipwrecked crew of the _Méduse_!
We are condemned to die in this infernal desert. Farewell,
all--farewell!"
He raised the pistol.
"Captain," the sergeant cried reproachfully, "take care! You have no
right to kill yourself. You are our chief, and must be the last to die:
if not, you are a coward!"
The count bounded as though a serpent had stung him, and made a gesture
as if to rush on the sergeant. The expression of his face was so savage,
his movement so terrible, that the sergeant was terrified, and recoiled.
The captain profited by this second respite, put the muzzle of the
pistol to his temple, and pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground,
with his skull fractured.
The adventurers had not yet recovered from the stupor this frightful
event had thrown them into, when the cloud of dust they had noticed
burst violently asunder, and they perceived a troop of mounted Indians,
in the midst of whom were a woman and two or three white men, galloping
toward them at full speed. Convinced that the Apaches had come up to
deal them the final blow, like vultures collecting round a fallen
buffalo, they did not even attempt an impossible resistance.
"Oh!" one of the hunters shouted, as he leaped from his horse and rushed
toward them, "the poor fellows!"
The newcomers were Belhumeur, Louis and their friends the Comanches. In
a few words they were apprised of all that had happened, and the
tortures the French had endured.
"Good heavens!" Belhumeur shouted, "if provisions failed, you had water
in abundance; then why do you complain of thirst?"
Without saying a word, Eagle-head and the Jester dug up the ground with
their knives at the foot of an ahuehuelt. Within ten minutes an abundant
stream of limpid water poured along the sand. The Frenchmen rushed in
disorder toward it.
"Poor fellows!" Don Louis murmured, "Shall we not take them from this
spot?"
"Do you think I would let them perish, now I have restored them to hope?
Poor girl!" casting a melancholy glance at Doña Anita, who was laughing
and cracking her fingers like castanets, "why is it not equally easy to
restore her to reason?"
Don Louis sighed, but made no reply.
The French then learned a thing, which would have saved them all
probably, had they known it sooner--that the ahuehuelt, which, in the
Comanche Indian dialect, signifies the _Lord of the Waters_, is a tree
which grows in arid spots, and its presence ever indicates either a
spring flush with the soil or a hidden source; that for this reason the
redskins hold it in veneration; and, as it is principally found in the
deserts, they designate it also by the name of the _Great Medicine of
Travellers_.
* * * * *
Two days later the adventurers, guided by the hunters and Comanches,
quitted the desert. They speedily reached the Casa Grande of
Moctecuhzoma, where their saviours, after giving them the provisions
they stood in such pressing need of, finally left them, hardly knowing
how to escape from their hearty thanks and blessings.
(Those of our readers who have felt an interest in Don Louis will find
his history continued in another volume, called "THE GOLD-SEEKERS.")
THE END.