REPRISALS.
The two enemies hesitated for a moment; but suddenly the sachem bounded
forward. The count remained motionless; but at the moment the Indian
reached him, with a movement rapid as thought, he seized the nostrils of
the chief's horse with the left hand, so that it reared with a shriek of
pain, and thrust his sword into the Indian's throat: the latter's lifted
arm fell down, his eyes opened widely, a jet of blood poured from the
gaping wound, and he rolled on the ground, uttering a yell of agony,
and writhing like a serpent. The count placed his foot on the chief's
chest, and nailed him to the ground. Then he shouted to his comrades in
a powerful voice,--
"Forward--forward!"
The adventurers responded by a shout of triumph, and rushed once
more on the redskins. But the latter no longer awaited their attack.
Terrified by the death of Mixcoatzin, one of their most revered sachems,
a panic seized upon them, and they fled in every direction. Then began
a real manhunt, with all its hideous and atrocious interludes. As we
have said, the Indians were surrounded: flight had become impossible.
The adventurers, exasperated by the long contest they had been obliged
to sustain, pitilessly massacred their conquered enemies, who would have
implored mercy in vain. The distracted Indians ran hither and thither,
sabred as they passed, transfixed by bayonets, and trampled underfoot
by the horses, which, as cruel as their masters, and intoxicated by the
sharp odour of blood, stamped on them frenziedly. The corpses were piled
up in the centre of the fatal circle which incessantly closed in around
them.
Their courage and strength all exhausted, the wretched redskins had
thrown away their arms, and, with their hands crossed on their chests,
they gave up any further struggle for life, and awaited death with that
gloomy calmness of despair and stoicism which characterises their race.
The count had wished for a long time to arrest this horrible carnage;
but, in the intoxication of victory, his orders were not so much
disobeyed as unheard. Still the Frenchmen stopped, struck with
admiration at the sight of the stoical resignation displayed by their
brave enemies, who disdained to ask mercy, and prepared to die worthily,
without any weakness or bravado. The Frenchmen hesitated, looked at
one another, and then raised their bayonets. The count profited by this
truce, and rushed before his men, brandishing in the air his sword,
reddened to the hilt.
"Enough, comrades," he shouted, "enough! We are soldiers, not hangmen or
butchers. Leave to the Mexicans all cowardly acts, and remain what you
have ever been--brave and clement men. Mercy for these poor wretches!"
"Mercy--mercy!" the Frenchmen shouted as they brandished their weapons
above their heads.
At this moment the sun rose gloriously in a flood of vapour. It was a
scene at once imposing and full of sublime horror which the battlefield
offered--still smoking with the last explosions of the firearms, covered
with corpses, and in the midst of which thirty disarmed men appeared to
bid defiance to a circle of men stained with blood and powder, and whose
features were contracted by passion.
The count then returned his sword to its scabbard, and walked
slowly toward the Indians, who watched his approach restlessly; for
they understood nothing of what had just occurred. The Indians are
implacable, and clemency is unknown to them. In the prairies the only
law is _va victis_. The redskins, being pitiless, never implore the
mercy of their foes, and endure unmurmuring the harsh law which it may
please their conquerors to mete out to them.
The adventurers had piled their arms, and had already forgotten all
their rancour: they were laughing and talking gaily together. Valentine
and Curumilla had rejoined the count.
"What is your intention?" the hunter asked.
"Have you not guessed it?" Louis replied. "I pardon them."
"All?"
"Of course," he said with surprise.
"Then you will restore them to liberty?"
"Yes."
"Hum!" the hunter said.
"Do you see anything to prevent it?"
"Possibly."
"Explain yourself."
"I see no harm in your forgiving the Indians, for that may produce
a good effect among the tribes, especially as the redskins have an
excellent memory, and will long remember the severe lesson they received
this night."
"Well?"
"But," the hunter went on, "all those men are not Indians."
"What do you mean?"
"That there are disguised Mexicans among them."
"You are certain of that?"
"Yes, the more so because I was warned by the man who commands the
horsemen that proved such useful auxiliaries to you."
"But are not those horsemen Apaches?"
"You are mistaken, my dear friend: they are white men, and what is more,
_cívicos_; that is to say, men paid and enrolled by the hacenderos to
chase the Indians. You see how honourably they carry out their duties;
but that must not astonish you, for you are sufficiently well acquainted
with the manners of this country to find that perfectly natural, I have
no doubt."
Louis stopped thoughtfully.
"What you tell me confounds me," he muttered.
"Why so?" the hunter replied carelessly. "It is, on the contrary, most
simple. But we have not to trouble ourselves about the horsemen at
present--they are beside the question."
"Certainly. Indeed, I owe them my thanks."
"They will save you the trouble, and I too. Let us only deal with the
men down there."
"Then you are sure there are white men among them?"
"Quite sure."
"But how to recognise them?"
"Curumilla will undertake that."
"What you tell me is strange. For what purpose are these men leagued
with our enemies?"
"We shall soon know that."
They then went on, and stood by the group. Valentine made a sign to
Curumilla: the chief then approached the Indians, and began examining
them attentively in turn, the count and Valentine watching him with
considerable interest. The Araucano was as cold and gloomy as usual--not
a muscle of his face quivered. On seeing him examine them thus, the
Indians could not refrain from shuddering: they trembled at the sight of
this dumb and unarmed man, whose piercing glance seemed to try and read
their hearts; Curumilla laid his finger on an Indian's chest.
"One!" he said, and passed on.
"Come out!" Valentine said to the redskin.
The latter stood apart.
Curumilla pointed out in this way nine in succession, and then rejoined
his comrades.
"Is that all?" Valentine asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"Disarm those men, and bind them firmly," the count commanded.
His orders being obeyed, Don Louis then walked up to the Apaches.
"My brothers may take their arms and mount their horses again," he
said. "They are valiant warriors. The palefaces have appreciated their
courage, and esteem them. My brothers will return to their villages, and
tell the old men and sages of their nation that the palefaces who have
conquered them are not cruel men, like the ferocious Yoris, and that
they desire to bury the hatchet so deeply between themselves and the
Apaches, that it may never be found again for ten thousand years."
An Indian advanced from the group, and saluted majestically.
"Strong Heart is a terrible warrior: he is a jaguar during the combat,
but he becomes an antelope after the victory. The words his breast
breathes are inspired in him by the Great Spirit--the Wacondah loves
him. My nation was deceived by the Yoris. Strong Heart is generous--he
has pardoned. Henceforth there will be friendship between the Apaches
and the warriors of Strong Heart."
The redskins, according to their custom, had, with that poesy which
distinguishes them, given Don Louis the name of Strong Heart.
After this address on the part of the Indian, who was a celebrated
chief, and known as the White Buffalo, there was an interchange of good
offices between the adventurers and Apaches. Their horses and arms were
returned to them, and the ranks were opened to let them pass. When they
had disappeared in the forest, El Buitre ordered his men to wheel, and
retired in his turn. Don Louis for a moment had the idea of recalling
this auxiliary, who had been so useful to him during the action; but
Valentine opposed it.
"Let those men go, brother," he said to him. "You must not have any
public relations with them."
Don Louis did not insist.
"Now," Valentine went on, "let us finish what we have so well begun."
"That is right," the count answered.
The order was at once given to bury the dead and attend to the wounded.
The Frenchmen had suffered a serious loss: they had ten men killed and
twenty odd wounded. It is true that the majority of these wounds were
not mortal; still the victory cost dearly: it was a warning for the
future.
Two hours later the company, assembled by the bugle call, ranged
themselves silently in the mission square, in the centre of which Don
Louis, Valentine, and three officers were gravely seated at a table, on
which lay sundry papers. Don Cornelio was writing at a smaller table.
The count had summoned his comrades, and appointed a court martial, of
which he was president, in order to try the prisoners captured during
the fight. Don Louis rose amidst a solemn silence.
"Bring forward the prisoners," he said.
The men previously pointed out by Curumilla appeared, led by a
detachment of adventurers, and were freed from their bonds. Although
they still wore the costume of Apache warriors, they had been compelled
to wash themselves, and remove the paint that disguised them. These men
appeared not so much to repent of their detected roguery, but merely
ashamed of being made a public spectacle.
"Bring in the last prisoner," Don Louis commanded.
At this order the adventurers looked round in surprise, not
understanding what the count meant, for the nine Mexicans were all
present. But at the expiration of a moment their surprise was changed
into anger, and a dull murmur ran along their ranks like an electric
current.
Colonel Florés had made his appearance. He was unarmed, and his head
bare; but his face, stamped with boldness and defiance, had a gloomily
malicious expression, which gave him a most unpleasant appearance.
Curumilla accompanied him. The count made a sign, and silence was
re-established.
"What is the meaning of this?" the colonel asked in a haughty tone.
Don Louis did not allow him to continue.
"Silence!" he said in a firm voice, turning a flashing glance upon him.
Subdued, in spite of himself, by the count's accent, the colonel blushed
and remained silent. Don Louis continued:--
"Brothers and comrades," he said, "unfortunately for us, circumstances
have placed us in an exceptional situation. On all sides treachery
surrounds us. By falsehood after falsehood, trick upon trick, they
have led us onto this desert, where we are abandoned to ourselves, far
from all help, and having our courage alone to count upon to save us.
Yesterday Don Sebastian Guerrero, believing himself at length sure of
the success of his infamous plans, which he has so long been forming
against us, decided on raising the mask. He declared us outlaws, and
branded us with the disgraceful epithet of pirates. Scarce two hours
after his departure we were attacked by Indians. Our enemies' measures
were well calculated, and were within an ace of success. But God was on
the watch, and saved us this time again. Now, do you know the man who
made himself the generals right arm, and carried into effect the odious
treachery of which we were so nearly the victims?
"This man," he said, pointing with his finger with an expression of
crushing contempt, "is the villain who, since our departure from
Guaymas, has attached himself to us, and never left us. He pretended
to love and defend us, that he might surprise our secrets, and sell
them to our enemies. It is the wretch whom we treated as a brother--to
whom we offered the most delicate and enduring attention. It is the
man, lastly, who assumes the title of colonel, and name of Francisco
Florés, and who lied in doing so; for he is a nameless half-breed,
surnamed El Garrucholo, ex-lieutenant of El Buitre, that ferocious
brigand who commands a _cuadrilla_ of salteadores that has desolated
Upper Mexico for several years. Look at him! Now that he is detected,
he trembles--villain that he is; for he knows that the supreme hour of
justice has rung for him."
In fact, at this terrible revelation, thus made in the presence of all,
the bandit's boldness suddenly gave way, and an expression of hideous
terror contracted his features.
"See," the count continued, "the men whom our enemies are not ashamed
to employ against us; and yet they treat us as pirates! Well, we accept
this brand, brothers; and these bandits who have fallen into our hands
shall be judged according to the summary law of pirates."
The adventurers warmly applauded their chief's address. Besides, all
recognised the truth and logic of his remarks. In the critical situation
in which they found themselves they could forgive nothing: clemency
would have been culpable weakness. They could only regain their position
by boldness and energy, by terrifying their foes, and compelling them
to treat with them. The count sat down again.
"Don Cornelio," he said, "read to the accused the charges brought
against him."
The Spaniard rose, and began a long charge against the colonel,
supported by numerous letters written by Don Francisco, or received by
him from various persons, principally General Guerrero, which clearly
and indubitably proved the colonel's guilt. Don Cornelio finished by
describing the interview on the previous day between Don Francisco, El
Buitre, and the Apache chief. The adventurers listened to this long
enumeration of crimes and felonies in the most profound silence. When
Don Cornelio had ended the count addressed the colonel.
"Do you recognise the truth of the charge brought against you?"
The bandit raised his head: his mind was made up, and he shrugged his
shoulders contemptuously.
"Of what use to deny?" he said. "It is all true."
"Then you confess that you have betrayed us since the first moment we
met?"
"_Canarios!_" he said, with a mocking smile, "you are mistaken, señor
conde. I betrayed you even before I knew you."
At this cynical declaration no one present could repress a start of
horror.
"Does what I say astonish you?" the bandit continued boldly. "Why so?
I consider my conduct perfectly natural. What are you to us Mexicans
but strangers? You are leeches, who come to our country to suck the
brightest of our blood; that is to say, to gorge yourselves with our
riches, deride our ignorance, turn into ridicule our manners and
customs, and impose on us your tastes, and what you call your Western
civilisation. By what right do you seize on all that is dear to us?
You are only ferocious beasts, to destroy whom all measures are
justifiable. If we are not the stronger in the sunshine, well, we have
the night. Loyalty and frankness would ruin us, so we employ falsehood
and treachery. What next? Who is wrong--who is right? Who will dare to
be judge between us? No one. I have fallen into your hands: you are
going to kill me. Very good. I shall be assassinated, but not condemned
by you, for you have no authority by which to try me. What more do you
want? Act as you think proper: it does not trouble me. He who sows the
wind reaps the whirlwind. I have sown trickery--I have reaped treason.
It is but just. I am about to die. Well, you have no right to inflict on
me this death which I have deserved. Your verdict will be a murder, I
repeat."
After pronouncing these words he folded his arms on his chest, and
boldly surveyed his auditors. In spite of themselves the adventurers
felt moved by a species of admiration for the savage resolution of
this man, with his feline and crafty manner, who had suddenly revealed
himself in so different a light from that in which they had hitherto
known him. In speaking with such brutal frankness the bandit had, as
it were, raised himself in the eyes of all. His roguery appeared less
vile; he inspired a sort of sympathy in these brave men, for whom
courage and virtue are the first two virtues.
"Then you do not even try to defend yourself?" Don Louis said
sorrowfully.
"Defend myself," he said in amazement, "for having acted as I thought
it my duty to do, and as I should act again if you were such fools as
to pardon me! Come, caballeros, that is not common sense. Besides, if I
defended myself, I should to a certain extent recognise the competency
of your tribunal, and I absolutely deny it; so, believe me, you had
better finish with me--the sooner the better, both for you and me."
The count rose, took off his hat, and, addressing the adventurers, said
in a solemn voice,--
"Friends and comrades, on your soul and conscience, is this man guilty?"
"Yes!" the adventurers answered in a hollow voice.
"What punishment has this man merited?" the count continued.
"Death!" the adventurers replied simultaneously.
The count then turned to the colonel.
"Don Francisco Florés, otherwise called El Garrucholo, you are condemned
to the penalty of death."
"Thanks!" he said, with a graceful bow.
"But," the count continued, "as you are convicted of treason, and must
suffer the death of traitors--that is, be shot in the back--taking into
consideration the uniform you wear, which is that of the Mexican army,
which we do not wish to disgrace in your person, you will be first
degraded: the judgment will be executed immediately after."
The bandit shrugged his shoulders.
"What do I care?" he said.
At a sign from the count a non-commissioned officer stepped from the
ranks, and the degradation commenced. El Garrucholo endured this
frightful humiliation without turning pale: the bandit had in him
completely gained the mastery over the caballero, and, as he said, he
cared little about being degraded--that is to say, dishonoured---because
honour to him was as nothing. When the subaltern had returned to the
ranks the count again addressed the condemned man.
"You have five minutes to commend your soul to God," he said to him.
"May He be merciful to you! You have nothing more to expect in this
world from men."
The bandit burst into a hoarse laugh.
"You are all fools!" he shouted. "What have I in common with God, if
really He exist? I had better recommend myself to the demon, into whose
clutches I shall fall, if what the monks say is true."
At this frightful blasphemy the adventurers gave a start of terror; but
El Garrucholo did not seem to notice it.
"I have," he continued, "only one favour more to ask of you."
"Speak!" the count replied, suppressing a gesture of disgust.
"I wear round my neck, hanging by a steel chain, a little velvet bag,
containing a blessed relic, which my mother gave me, telling me it would
bring me good fortune. Since my birth this scapulary has never left me.
I desire it to be buried with me. Perhaps it will be of use to me down
there where I am bound."
"What you desire shall be done," the count answered.
"Thanks!" he said with evident satisfaction.
Strange anomaly of the Mexican character! This people is credulous and
superstitious, without faith and without belief--a childish people, too
long enslaved, and too quickly liberated, which has not had the time
either to forget or to learn.
"The picket!" the count commanded.
Eight men, commanded by a corporal, stepped from the ranks. The bandit
knelt, with his back turned to the executioners.
"Present--fire!"
El Garrucholo fell, shot in the back, not uttering a sigh: he was stark
dead. His body was covered with a zarapé.
"Now," the count said coldly, "for the rest."
The nine prisoners were brought up to the table: they were trembling,
for the summary justice of the adventurers filled them with terror.
A great noise was at this moment heard a short distance off, mingled
with shouts and imprecations; and suddenly two females, mounted on
magnificent horses, galloped into the middle of the square, when they
stopped. They were Doña Angela and her waiting maid, Violanta.
Doña Angela's hair was dishevelled; her features were animated,
probably by the speed at which she had come; and her eyes flashed
flames. She remained for a moment motionless amid the crowd surprised
at her sudden appearance. But, seeming suddenly to form a supreme
resolution, she raised her head haughtily, and addressed the attentive
adventurers, who were struck with admiration at so much boldness united
to such beauty.
"Listen!" she said in a piercing voice. "I, Doña Angela, daughter of the
Governor of Sonora, have come here to protest boldly, in the sight of
all, against the treachery of which my father makes you the victims. Don
Louis, chief of the French pirates, I love you! Will you accept me as
your wife?"
A thunder of applause greeted these strange words, which were uttered
with extraordinary animation. Don Louis slowly drew nearer the maiden,
as if fascinated and attracted by her glance.
"Come," he said to her, "come, as you do not fear to ally yourself to
misfortune."
The girl uttered a scream of joy that resembled a yell; and abandoning
her reins, she bounded like a panther, and fell into the arms of the
count, who pressed her frenziedly against his manly breast. Then, after
a moment, still holding her in his embrace, he proudly raised his head,
and looked commandingly around.
"This lady is the wife of the chief of the pirates, my brothers. Love
her as a sister: she will be our palladium--our guardian angel."
The intoxication of the adventurers cannot be described: it was
madness. This strange scene appeared to them a dream. The count then
turned to the prisoners, who awaited their sentence in tremor.
"Begone!" he said to them. "Go and narrate what you have seen. Doña
Angela pardons you."
The prisoners left the square, uttering benedictions innumerable. The
poor fellows, after all that had passed in their presence, regarded
themselves as dead men. Valentine drew near the maiden.
"You are an angel," he said to her in a low voice. "Will you persevere?"
"I am his to the tomb," she answered with a feverish energy.