THE FIRST POWDER BURNT.
The emotion caused by the general's visit gradually calmed down. The
Frenchmen, so long the sport of Mexican bad faith, experienced almost
joy at seeing themselves at length liberated from the inextricable web
of trickery which had encompassed them. With that carelessness which
forms the basis of the national character, they began laughing and
jibing at the Mexicans generally, and especially at the authorities of
the country, of whom they had to complain so greatly, though without
daring to offer the least observation, through respect for their chief.
Full of confidence in the count, without calculating that they were only
a handful of men abandoned to their own resources, without help or
possible protection, more than six thousand leagues from their country,
they indulged to the fullest extent of their imagination in the wildest
dreams, discussing among themselves the most extraordinary and daring
plans, without ever supposing, in their candid filibustering simplicity,
that even the least extravagant of their dreams was impossible to
realise.
Louis would not allow the ardour of his volunteers to be chilled. After
consulting with his officers, to whom he submitted his plans, which they
accepted enthusiastically, by Valentine's advice he ordered a general
assembly of the company. The bugles at once sounded, and the adventurers
collected around headquarters.
"Gentlemen," the count said, "you see in what a position the breach of
faith of the Mexican authorities has placed us; but this position, in my
opinion, is far from being desperate. Still I must not conceal from you
that it is extremely grave, and, from certain information I have from
a good source, it threatens to become still more so. We have two modes
in which to act. The first is to proceed by forced marches to Guaymas,
seize a vessel, and embark ere our enemies have thought about opposing
our departure."
A long murmur of dissatisfaction greeted these words.
"Gentlemen," the count continued, "it was my duty to submit this
proposition to you, and you will discuss it amongst yourselves. If
it does not suit you, no more need be said. And now for the second.
Mexico, since its emancipation, has languished in a state of the most
scandalous barbarism. It would be grand to regenerate this people, or
at least attempt it. The American emigration from the United States
is at this moment invading California, leaving other emigrants no
means, I will not say of prospering, but even of keeping on a footing
of equality with the Yankees. We are here in Sonora, 200 resolute
Frenchmen, well armed and disciplined. Let us seize a large town to have
a basis of operations; then we will summon to us the French emigrants
from California and all America. Let us emancipate Sonora, make it free
and strong, civilise it in spite of itself, and not only shall we have
created an outlet for French immigration, but have regenerated a people
and formed a colony which will advantageously balance American influence
on these shores, and oppose a dyke to its incessant encroachments.
We shall have acquired a claim to the gratitude of our country, and
have avenged ourselves on our enemies in the way Frenchmen revenge
themselves; that is to say, by responding to their insults by kindness.
Such, gentlemen, are the two sole methods we can select which would
be worthy of men like us. Weigh my words carefully; reflect on my
propositions; and tomorrow, at sunrise, you will inform me of your
intentions through the channel of your officers. Remember one thing
before all, comrades, and that is, you must maintain strict discipline
among yourselves. Obey me passively, and place unbounded faith in me.
If you fail in one of the duties I impose on you at this moment, we
are all lost; for the struggle will become impossible, and consequently
our enemies will gain an easy victory over us. In conclusion, brethren,
accept my word that whatever may be the circumstances in which we find
ourselves--however magnificent the offers that may be made me--I will
never abandon you. We will perish or succeed together."
This speech was greeted as it deserved to be; that is to say, with
an enthusiasm impossible to describe. The count then withdrew with
Valentine.
"Alas, brother!" he said to him, with an expression of heart-rending
sorrow, "the die is now cast. I, Count de Prébois Crancé, am a rebel, a
pirate: I am at open war with a recognised power, with a constitutional
Government. What can I do with the few men I command? I shall perish
in the first battle--the combat is senseless. I shall be ere long the
laughing stock of the world. Who could have predicted this when I left
San Francisco, full of hope, to work those mines which I shall never
see? What has become of my fair dreams, my seductive hopes?"
"Do not allow yourself to be downcast, brother," Valentine answered.
"At present, above all, you need all your intellect and all your energy
to fulfil worthily the task accident imposes on you. Remember that from
this intellect and this energy depends the safety of two hundred of your
countrymen, whom you have sworn to lead back to the seashore; and you
must keep your oath."
"I will die with them. What more can they demand?"
"That you should save them," the hunter replied sternly.
"That is my most anxious desire."
"Your position is a fine one--you are not so alone as you fancy."
"How so?"
"Have you not the French colony of Guetzalli, founded by the Count de
Lhorailles?"
"Yes," Louis answered sadly; "but the count is dead."
"He is; but the colony exists, and is prosperous. You will find there
fifty to sixty resolute men, who ask no better than to join you, even if
merely through the spirit of adventure."
"Fifty men are very few."
"Nonsense! They are more than you need when dealing with Mexicans.
Do one thing more: prepare an insurrection among the half savage
population, whose alcaldes pine secretly at their secondary position,
and the species of vassaldom into which the Mexican Government forces
them."
"Oh, oh!" Louis said, "that is a good idea. But where is the man who
will undertake to visit this people, and negotiate with the alcaldes of
the Pueblos?"
"I will, if you like."
"I did not dare ask it. Thank you. I, for my part, will prepare
everything in order to begin with a terrible blow, which will startle
the Mexican Government by giving it an idea of our strength."
"Good! Before all, do not forget that, until fresh orders, the war you
undertake must be an uninterrupted succession of daring blows."
"Oh! you may be at ease. Now that the Mexicans have lifted the mask,
and forced me to defend myself, they will learn to know the men they
have so long despised, and whom they fancied cowards because they were
good-hearted."
"Has Colonel Florés left?"
"No, not yet."
"Keep him here till tomorrow, no matter by what pretext."
"Why so?"
"Let me alone: you shall know. And now prepare to sustain an attack from
the Indians: if my presentiments do not deceive me, it will be warm."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Certain information I picked up for myself, and other still more
important I obtained from Curumilla. So try to prevent the Mexican
colonel leaving the camp, but do not let him suspect he is watched."
"It shall be done. You know that I trust to you for the precautions to
be taken?"
"Externally, yes; but do you watch that the lines are not forced."
The greatest animation prevailed in the camp. Armories and smiths were
busily working with feverish ardour to place weapons, carts, and gun
carriages in working condition. On all sides joyous shouts and bursts of
laughter could be heard; for these worthy adventurers had regained all
their gaiety, now that there was a prospect of fighting; that is, of
dealing and receiving blows.
Colonel Florés wandered about rather sadly in the midst of the
confusion: his position was becoming difficult, and he felt it. Still
he did not know how to prolong his stay among the Frenchmen, now that
war was declared, and the interests of the company of which he was
the delegate were completely laid aside; and thus the only plausible
reason he could allege for remaining was cut away. Since the Frenchmen's
arrival in Mexico the double character played by the colonel brought him
handsome sums: his profession of spy, rendered easy by the confiding
frankness of the adventurers, had been to him a source of enormous
profit, and people do not give up without pain a lucrative engagement.
Thus the colonel's brow was anxious, for he racked his brains in
vain for a plausible excuse to offer the count. In the height of his
diplomatic combinations Valentine came to him, and told him, with the
most innocent air possible, that Don Louis was seeking for him, and
wished to speak with him. The colonel shuddered at the news: he thanked
the hunter, and hastened to the count. Valentine looked after him with
an ironical smile; and, certain that Louis would detain him long enough
by his side, he commenced the execution of the plan he had prepared.
While all this was occurring night had set in--a gloomy and sad night,
without a star in the sky. The clouds shot rapidly across the sickly
disc of the moon, and intercepted its rays. The wind lamented sadly as
it whistled through the branches of the trees, which dashed against each
other with a lugubrious sound. In the mysterious depths of the forest
could be heard growls and savage yells, mingled with the dashing of the
cascade and the monotonous clashing of the pebbles rolled on the bank by
the river. It was one of those nights in which nature seems to associate
herself with human sorrows, and lament at the crimes for which her
gloomy shadows serve as a veil.
By Valentine's orders the trees had been cut down for a distance of
fifty yards round the camp, in order to clear the ground, and deprive
the enemy of the chance of creeping up to the intrenchments unseen.
On the space thus left free enormous fires were kindled at regular
intervals. These fires, whose tall flames illumined the prairie for a
considerable distance, formed a brilliant circle round the camp, which
was itself plunged in complete obscurity. Not the slightest light
flashed in the mission. The intrenchments appeared to be deserted--not
a sentry could be seen. The mission had fallen back into the silence of
solitude--all was calm and tranquil.
But this calm concealed the tempest. In the shadow palpitated the
anxious hearts of the men who, with ear on the watch, and finger on the
trigger, awaited motionless the arrival of their enemies. The hours,
however, passed away slowly one after the other, and nothing justified
the apprehensions expressed by Valentine as to a speedy attack.
The count was walking up and down the church which served as his
retreat, listening anxiously to the slightest sounds that interrupted
the silence at intervals. At times he turned an angry and impatient look
upon the desert country, but nothing stirred--the same calm continued
ever to oppress nature. Wearied by this long and enervating delay,
he quitted the church, and proceeded toward the intrenchments. The
adventurers were at their posts, stretched on the ground, each man with
his hand on the trigger.
"Have you seen or heard nothing yet?" the count asked, though he knew
beforehand the answer he would receive, and rather for the purpose of
deceiving his impatience than with any other object.
"Nothing," Don Cornelio answered coldly, who happened to be close to him.
"Ah! it is you," the count said. "And Colonel Florés, what have you done
with him?"
"I followed your instructions, commandant. He is asleep."
"You are sure of it?"
The Spaniard smiled.
"I guarantee that he will sleep at least till sunrise," he said. "I
managed matters well."
"Very good; in that case we have nothing to fear from him."
"Nothing at all."
"Has anyone seen Don Valentine or the Indian chief?"
"No; they both went out at sunset, and have not reappeared since."
While speaking thus the two men were looking out, and their eyes
attentively examined the plain: hence they made a gesture of surprise,
almost of alarm, on suddenly perceiving a man who seemed to emerge from
the ground, and rose between them like a phantom.
"_Válgame Dios!_" the superstitious Spaniard said as he crossed himself,
"what is this?"
The count quickly drew a revolver from his girdle.
"Do not fire," the newcomer said as he laid his hand on the count's arm.
"Curumilla!" the count exclaimed in surprise.
"Silence!" the Araucano commanded.
"Where is Valentine?"
"He sent me."
"Then the redskins will not attack us this night?"
Curumilla regarded the count with amazement.
"Does not my brother see them?" he said.
"Where?" the count asked in astonishment.
"There!" Curumilla answered, stretching out his arm in the direction of
the plain.
Don Louis and Don Cornelio looked out for several instants with the most
sustained attention; but, in spite of all their efforts, they perceived
nothing. The plain was still just as naked, lighted up by the ruddy
glare from the braseros: here and there alone lay the trunks of the
trees felled during the day to leave an open prospect.
"No," they said at length, "we see nothing."
"The eyes of the white men are closed at night," the chief muttered
sententiously.
"But where are they?" the count asked impatiently. "Why did you not warn
us?"
"My brother Koutonepi sends me for that purpose."
The name of Koutonepi--that is to say, the Valiant--had been given to
Valentine by the Araucanos on his arrival in America, and Curumilla
never called him otherwise.
"Then make haste to teach us, chief, that we may foil the accursed
stratagem which these demons have doubtlessly invented."
"Let my brother warn his brothers to be ready to fight."
The word ran immediately along the line from one to the other. Curumilla
then tranquilly shouldered his rifle, and aimed at a trunk of a tree
rather nearer the intrenchments than the rest.
Never did a shot produce such an effect. A horrible yell rose from
the plain, and a swarm of redskins, rising, as if moved by a spring,
from behind the stems of trees that sheltered them, rushed toward the
intrenchments, bounding like coyotes, uttering fearful yells, and
brandishing their weapons furiously.
But the Frenchmen were prepared for this attack: they received the
Indians at the bayonet point without recoiling an inch, and answering
their ferocious yells with the unanimous shout of "VIVE LA FRANCE!"
From this moment war was, _de facto_, declared. The French had smelled
powder, and the Mexicans were about to learn, at their own expense, what
rude enemies they had so madly brought on themselves.
Still the redskins, led and animated by their chief, fought with
extraordinary obstinacy. The majority of the Frenchmen who composed
the company were ignorant of the way of fighting with the Indians, and
it was the first time they had come into collision with them. While
valiantly resisting them, and inflicting on them terrible losses, they
could not refrain from admiring the audacious temerity of these men,
who, half naked and wielding wretched weapons, yet rushed upon them with
invincible courage, and only fell back when dead.
Suddenly a second band, more numerous than the first, and composed
entirely of horsemen, burst on to the battlefield, and sustained the
efforts of the assailants. The latter, feeling themselves supported,
redoubled their yells and efforts. The medley became terrible: the
combatants fought hand to hand, lacerating each other like wild beasts.
The French bugles and drums sounded the charge heartily.
"A sortie--a sortie!" the adventurers shouted, ashamed at being thus
held in check by enemies apparently so insignificant.
"Kill, kill!"
The Indians responded with their war cry.
An Indian chief, mounted on a magnificent black horse, and with his body
naked to the waist, curveted in the front rank of his men, dropping
with his club every man that came within reach of his arm. Twice he
had made his steed leap at the barricades, and twice he scaled them,
though unable to clear them completely. This chief was Mixcoatzin. His
black eye flashed with a sombre fire; his arm seemed indefatigable;
and everyone withdrew from this terrible enemy, who was apparently
invincible.
The sachem redoubled his boldness, incessantly urging on his men, and
insulting the whites by his shouts and ironical gestures.
Suddenly a third troop appeared on the battlefield, which, owing to
the braziers, was as light as day. But this troop, composed, like
the second, of horsemen, instead of joining the Indians, formed a
semicircle, and charged them furiously, shouting,--
"_A muerte_--_a muerte!_"
Valentine's powerful voice at this moment rose above the tumult of
battle, and even reached those he wished to warn.
"Now is the time!" he shouted.
The count heard him. Turning then to fifty of the adventurers who
bad remained inactive since the beginning of the action, chafing and
trailing their arms,--
"It is our turn, comrades!" he shouted as he drew his long sword. Then,
opening the wicket, he bounded boldly into the _mêlée_, followed by his
party, who rushed after him with shouts of joy. The Indians were caught
between two fires--a thing which rarely happens--and compelled to
fight in the open. Still they were not discouraged, for Indian bravery
surpasses all belief. Finding themselves surrounded, they resolved to
die bravely sooner than surrender; and though not nearly so well armed
as their enemies, they received their attack with unlessened resolution.
But the Indians, on this occasion, had not to do with Mexicans, and soon
discovered the difference. The charge of the Frenchmen was irresistible:
they passed like a tornado through the redskins, who, in spite of their
resolution, were compelled to give ground. But flight was impossible.
Recalled by the voices of their chiefs, who, while themselves fighting
bravely, did not cease to urge them to redouble their efforts, they
returned to the combat. The struggle then assumed the gigantic
proportions of a horrible carnage. It was no longer a battle, but a
butchery, in which each sought to kill, caring little about falling
himself, so long as he dragged down his foeman with him.
Valentine, the greater part of whose life had been spent in the desert,
and who had frequently encountered the Indians, had never before seen
them display so great animosity, and, above all, such obstinacy; for
usually, when they suffer a check, far from obstinately continuing a
fight without any possible advantageous result for themselves, they
retire immediately, and seek safety in a hurried flight; but this time
their mode of fighting was completely changed, and it seemed that the
more they recognised the impossibility of victory, the more anxious they
felt to resist.
The count, ever in front of his comrades, whom he encouraged by his
gestures and voice, tried to approach Mixcoatzin, who, still curveting
on his black horse, performed prodigies of valour, which electrified
his men, and threatened, if not to change the face of the combat, at
any rate to prolong it. But each time that chance brought him in front
of the chief, and he prepared to rush upon him, a crowd of combatants,
driven back by the changing incidents of the fight, came between them,
and neutralised his efforts.
For his part, the sachem also strove to approach the count, with whom he
burned to measure himself, persuaded that, if he succeeded in killing
the chief of the palefaces, the latter would be struck with terror, and
abandon the battlefield.
At length, as if by mutual agreement, the white men and Indians fell
back a few paces, doubtlessly to prepare for a final contest; and it
was then that, for the first time since the combat, the count and the
sachem found themselves face to face. The two men exchanged a flashing
glance, and rushed upon each other furiously. Neither of the chiefs had
firearms: the sachem brandished his terrible club, and the count waved
his long sword, which was reddened to the hilt.
"At last!" the count shouted, as he raised his weapon over his head.
"Begging dog of the palefaces," the Indian said with a grin, "you bring
me, then, your scalp, that I may attach it to the entrance of my cabin!"
They were only two paces from each other, each awaiting the favourable
moment to rush on his enemy. On seeing their chiefs ready to engage, the
two parties rushed forward impetuously, in order to separate them and
recommence the combat; bat Don Louis, with a gesture of supreme command,
ordered his companions not to interfere. The adventurers remained
motionless. On his side, Mixcoatzin, seeing the noble and gallant
courtesy of the count, commanded his comrades to keep back. The redskins
obeyed, and the question was left to be decided between Don Louis and
the sachem.