THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
It was night. In a small house at Guaymas, Louis and Valentine were
conversing by the light of a meagre candle, which only spread a smoking
and trembling illumination. They were discussing the measures by which
to expedite the finale of the gloomy machinations in which General
Guerrero had managed to enfold them with diabolical cunning, while
Curumilla was peacefully sleeping in a corner of the room.
"I foresaw it," Valentine said. "Now it is too late to draw back. We
must act energetically: if not, you are lost."
"Eh, my friend? I am so in every way."
"What! will you really break down when the hour of danger has pealed?"
"I do not fear it: it will be welcome. I should wish to die, brother."
"Come, be a man. Regain your courage, but make haste. Have you noticed
the arms and ammunition continually arriving? Believe me, we must make
an end of it, one way or other, as speedily as possible."
"Yes, I know as well as you that the general is deceiving us; but these
volunteers are not the men I had at Hermosillo. These fellows hesitate
and are afraid. Their commandant is incapable of acting: he is a
vacillating, irresolute man. With such people we can achieve nothing."
"I am afraid so: still it is better to know at once on what you have to
depend than to remain any longer in this state of uncertainty."
"Tomorrow the delegates will go and see the general."
"Let them go to the deuce: they will be at least certain of obtaining a
categorical answer from him," Valentine said impatiently.
At this moment two light taps were heard at the street door.
"Who can arrive so late?" the count said. "I expect nobody."
"No matter; let us see," Valentine said. "It is often the case that the
people we least expect are the most agreeable visitors."
And he went to open the door. It was scarce ajar ere a woman rushed into
the house, crying to the hunter in a voice rendered hoarse by terror,--
"Look, look! I am pursued!"
Valentine rushed out.
Although this woman was _tapada_--that is to say, her features were
completely hidden by a rebozo--the count recognised her at once. What
other woman but Doña Angela could come to see him in this way? It was,
in reality, the general's daughter. The count received her half fainting
into his arms, laid her on a butaca, and began lavishing on her all
those attentions which her condition demanded.
"In Heaven's name, speak! What is the matter with you?" he exclaimed.
"What has happened?"
In a little while the young lady recovered, passed her hand over her
forehead several times, and gazed at the count with an expression of
intense happiness.
"At length I see you again, my love!" she exclaimed as she burst into
tears, and threw herself headlong into his arms.
Don Louis returned her caresses, and tried to calm her. The maiden was
suffering from a strange nervous excitement, her large black eyes were
haggard, her face pallid as that of a corpse, and her whole body was
agitated by a convulsive tremor.
"Tell me, my child, what is the matter with you? In Heaven's name,
explain! I implore you, speak. Angela, speak, if you love me."
"If I love you, poor cherished one of my heart!" she said with a sigh as
she laid her hand in his. "If I love you! Alas! I love you to death, Don
Louis; and this love will kill me."
"Speak not so, my well-beloved angel! Dispel these gloomy thoughts: let
us only think of our love."
"No, Don Louis, I have not come to you to speak of love: I have come to
save you."
"To save me!" he said with feigned gaiety. "Do you believe me, then, to
be in great peril?"
"Don Louis, you are running an immense risk. Take heed of my words. Do
not look at me so with a smile: tomorrow you will be a lost man. All the
measures are taken. I heard all: it is horrible! And that is the way I
learnt your return to Guaymas, of which I was ignorant. Then I ran off
madly, wildly to you, in order to say to you, 'Fly, fly, Don Louis!'"
"Fly!" he repeated thoughtfully. "And you, Angela, must I lose you again
this time and for ever? No, I prefer death."
"I will go with you; for am I not your affianced, your wife in the sight
of Heaven? Come, come, Don Louis, let us go--not lose a minute, a
second. Your black horse will carry us beyond pursuit in two hours. But
take your weapons, for I was followed by a man as I came here from my
father's house."
She spoke with strange volubility, like a person talking in a fever. The
count knew not what resolution to follow, when suddenly a loud noise was
heard in the street, and the door, which was only leant to, flew wide
open.
"Save me, save me!" the poor child exclaimed, a prey to indescribable
terror.
Don Louis bounded on his pistols, and placed himself resolutely before
her.
"Oh, you shall come, you villain!" Valentine's voice was heard outside.
"You shall not escape me this time. Come, walk in, or I'll quicken your
motions with my dagger."
And with a vigorous effort the hunter entered the room, dragging after
him a man who made futile efforts to escape.
"Shut the door, Louis," Valentine continued. "And now, my worthy spy,
show me your treacherous face, that I may be able to recognise you
again."
Curumilla had left the corner in which he had hitherto been sleeping.
Without uttering a syllable he drew Doña Angela behind a mosquito net,
which completely concealed her, and then rejoined his friends, candle
in hand. All this while the prisoner offered an obstinate resistance to
prevent his features being seen; but he did not say a word, contenting
himself with uttering hoarse and indistinct exclamations of rage. At
length, after a long struggle, the stranger seemed to comprehend that
all his efforts would be in vain: he drew himself up, took off his
cloak, and crossed his arms on his chest.
"Well, look at me, as you insist on doing so," he said with a sarcastic
accent.
"Don Cornelio!" the Frenchmen exclaimed.
"Myself, gentlemen. How have you been since I last had the pleasure of
seeing you?" he continued with serpent coolness.
"Miserable traitor!" Valentine yelled as he rushed on him.
But the count checked him.
"Wait," he said.
"I betrayed you, it is true," Don Cornelio replied. "What next? I had
probably a motive in doing so. I know you are going to say that you
did me many services. What does that prove, if you did me in a single
day more injury than all the good you did me during the course of our
relations?"
"I did you an injury! You lie, you scoundrel!"
"Señor conde," Don Cornelio said with a haughty air, "I would remind you
that I am a gentleman, and will not allow you to address me in the way
you are now doing."
"This wretch is mad, on my soul!" the count said with a smile of pity.
"Let him go, brother; he is unworthy of our anger: he only merits our
contempt."
"Not so," Valentine sharply objected. "This man is the general's tool:
we cannot let him go thus."
"What shall we do with him? Sooner or later we must release him."
"That is possible, but for the present we will hand him over to the care
of Curumilla."
The Indian gave a nod of assent, and seizing Don Cornelio, led him
away. The latter allowed him to do so without offering the slightest
resistance.
"We shall meet again, gentlemen," he said with a mocking smile.
The Indian looked at him in a very peculiar manner, and drew him into
another room. Doña Angela then emerged from behind the curtain.
"I am waiting for you, Don Louis," she said.
The latter shook his head sadly.
"Alas!" he said, "I cannot fly: my life is not my own. I have sworn to
my comrades not to abandon them. Were I to fly, I should be a traitor."
Doña Angela went up to him and bent gracefully over him.
"Farewell, Don Louis," she said. "You are acting as a caballero. Follow
your destiny. Your honour is as dear to me as to yourself. I wish it
to be unspotted. I no longer insist. Farewell! Give me a kiss on the
forehead: we shall not meet again till the day of our death."
All at once a cry was heard in the street, so horrible that the three
persons shuddered with terror. The door opened, and Curumilla stalked
in: his face was calm, and his step as measured as usual.
"You went out by the door of the corral then, chief?" Valentine asked
him.
"Yes."
"But what have you done with Don Cornelio?"
"Free," the Indian said.
"What! free?" Don Louis exclaimed.
"There must be something in the background," the hunter remarked. "Why
did you give him his liberty?"
Curumilla drew his knife from his waist belt, and the blade was red with
blood.
"You need no longer fear him," he said.
"You have not killed him?" the three exclaimed simultaneously.
"No," he said. "He is dumb and blind."
"Oh!" they said with a gesture of horror.
Curumilla had simply scooped out Don Cornelio's eyes with his scalping
knife, and torn out his tongue; then he led him to the other end of the
town, and abandoned him to his fate. Valentine and Don Louis considered
it useless to address any reproaches to the chief, which could not
repair the evil, and which, indeed, the Araucano would not have
understood; consequently they refrained from any observation.
Doña Angela, in spite of the count's entreaties, would not consent to
him accompanying her on her return home. She withdrew, after whispering
in his ear the parting recommendation,--
"Take heed of tomorrow, Don Louis."
The count smiled, and she flew away like a bird, leaving behind her very
sad and naked the little room which she had illumined for a short time
with her presence.
"Come," the count said, as he fell hack in a butaca so soon as she was
gone, "it seems that tomorrow will bring the finale: all the better.
Still the man that takes me will have to pay dearly for it."
The next day, as had been arranged, the delegates of the volunteers
waited on the general, who received them in his usual way, lavishing
protestations and promises on them. The delegates pressed for a
settlement, on which Don Sebastian, who was doubtlessly ready to deal
the blow he had so long meditated, changed his tone and dismissed
them, bidding them await his good pleasure. The delegates withdrew,
exasperated by the roguery of the man in whom they had been so weak
as to place confidence, and who now proved to them that he had been
deceiving them from the beginning.
The volunteers were anxiously expecting the answer their delegates were
to bring them. When the latter described what had taken place their
exasperation reached its height: the cry "To arms!" was raised, and
everyone prepared for fighting. The chief of the battalion completely
lost his head.
"Bid them form a square," the count said to him. The order was obeyed.
The count placed himself in the centre of the square, and raised his
hand to command silence.
All were still: the moment was a solemn one, and all perceived it. In
spite of himself, a certain degree of hesitation was depicted on the
count's handsome face: not that he feared for himself personally, but he
felt that he was about to risk his last stake, and it would be decisive.
Everyone had his eyes fixed upon him.
"You hesitate, count," an officer said to him. "Why did you join us,
then? Are you no longer the man of Hermosillo?"
At this sharp remark a vivid blush suffused the count's cheek, and he
trembled with suppressed passion.
"No," he exclaimed, "no, by heavens! I do not hesitate. My friends,
reflect: there is yet time. Remember that, the sword once drawn, we
become outlaws. What will you do?"
"Fight--fight!" the volunteers shouted, waving their weapons
enthusiastically.
The count drew himself up, unsheathed his sword, and brandished it over
his head.
"You wish it?" he shouted.
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, then, forwards! Long live France!"
"Long live France!" the volunteers replied.
The battalion, formed in four companies, resolutely left its
quarters, and proceeded at a quick step toward the Mexican barracks.
Unfortunately, as we have said, a dissension had sprung up among the
French. Many of them marched very unwillingly, being forced on by their
comrades. The chief of the battalion, too, though personally very brave,
was not the man suited to attempt a _coup de main_ like the present one;
and the count, through excess of delicacy, and in order to maintain
unity of action, committed the fault of declining the command when
offered to him by the officers and men.
The battalion proceeded toward the Mexican barracks by three different
roads. But General Guerrero had made his arrangements long before. He
had shut himself up in these barracks with three hundred troops of the
line. The neighbouring houses were crammed with cívicos, while four guns
commanded the only approaches. The Frenchmen only amounted to three
hundred men, one half of them discouraged, while the Mexicans were
nearly two thousand.
Still the action began vigorously on all sides at once. The first charge
was admirable. The Mexican guns swept down the attacking party, and
effected a frightful carnage. Still the French held their ground, and
continued to advance, supported by the example of the count, who walked
fifteen paces in advance of the column, with a rifle in one hand and
a sword in the other, amid a hail-storm of bullets, shouting in his
powerful voice,--
"Forward! forward!"
All at once, the chief of the battalion, who ought to have supported the
attack on the right, seeing his company decimated by canister, lost his
head completely, and fell back in disorder on the French quarters. The
count tried in vain to rally the volunteers; disorder was beginning to
spread among them, and all his efforts were powerless.
It was at this moment the count understood the fault he had committed
by not accepting the chief command. Still the Mexican guns no longer
fired, for the artillerymen were dead.
"Forward! Charge with the bayonet!" the count shouted; and he rushed
onward, followed by Valentine and Curumilla, who did not remain an inch
behind. Some twenty volunteers dashed after him. The count rushed up
to the wall of the barracks, which he succeeded in scaling, and stood
upright on the summit, exposed to the whole of the enemy's fire.
"Forward! forward!" he repeated.
His hat, pierced by balls, was blown off his head, and several
bayonet-thrusts tore his clothes. A terrible hand-to-hand contest
commenced. Unfortunately there were only fifteen Frenchmen altogether.
After a heroic attempt to hold their ground they were compelled to give
way; but they fell back like lions, pace by pace, with their faces
turned to the foe, and not ceasing to fight. The count howled with
rage: tears of passion poured down his cheeks at seeing himself thus
abandoned. He wished to die. But in vain did he throw himself into the
thickest of the fight: his friends protected him, in spite of himself,
against the blows dealt at him. At length the route commenced. The count
broke his sword, after a glance of powerless fury at his enemies, whom,
had he been bravely supported, he would have conquered, and who thus
escaped him.
Valentine and Curumilla dragged him down to the port; but the vessel
which brought him had set sail during the combat. Flight was impossible.
In this extremity only one house could offer a refuge to the conquered:
it was that of the French agent, and the volunteers flocked to it.
Señor Pavo promised that all those who delivered their arms up to him
should be placed under the protection of the French flag. The count had
entered the house and thrown himself into a chair, insensible to all
that was said and done around him; but Valentine was watching.
"A moment," he said. "Señor Pavo, will the life of Count de Prébois
Crancé be saved?"
The Mexican looked craftily at the hunter, but made no answer.
"No shuffling, sir," Valentine continued. "We want a distinct answer, or
we shall renew the engagement."
As it was no longer possible to hesitate Señor Pavo spoke.
"Gentlemen," he said in a clear and distinct voice, "on my honour I
swear to you that the life of Count Louis de Prébois Crancé shall be
spared."
"We shall remember your words, sir," Valentine said sternly.
Don Antonio Pavo hoisted a white flag as a signal of peace. Nearly the
whole battalion of volunteers had sought refuge at his house. The battle
was over; it had lasted three hours. The French had thirty-eight men
killed, and sixty-three wounded, out of three hundred combatants. The
Mexicans lost thirty-five men during the action, and had one hundred and
forty-seven wounded, out of about two thousand soldiers. The battle
had been warmly contested, and the conquerors paid dearly for a victory
which was the result of treachery.