FRIENDS AND ENEMIES.
Let us say, in a few words, what was the political situation of the
ancient viceroyalty of Buenos Aires at the moment when our history
commences.
Notwithstanding the royal decree of Jan. 22, 1809, declaring the
provinces of Spanish America an integral part of the monarchy, with
equal rights to those of the other provinces of the metropolis, Don
Baltazar de Cisneros, named viceroy, arrived with the title of Count of
Buenos Aires, and with the authority to receive an annual payment of
100,000 reals.
Indignation, for a long time subdued, at last burst out.
A commission, at the head of which figured two devoted patriots, named
don Juan José Castelli and don Manuel Belgrano, was instituted.
On the 14th of May, 1810, a deputation, composed of nearly 600 notables
of Buenos Aires, waited on the viceroy to invite him to abandon an
authority henceforth ridiculous and illegal, since it emanated from a
power which no longer existed in Europe.
A Junta was formed which, after having proclaimed the abolition of the
Cour des Comptes, the impost on tobacco, and all dealings with the
viceroy, sent an imposing force to Córdoba against General Liniers,
French in origin, but devoted to the Spanish monarchy, which for a long
time he had served with éclat in America.
Liniers had succeeded in collecting a considerable army, supported by a
little squadron which, starting from Monte Video, had come to blockade
Buenos Aires.
Unhappily, this event, which was to save the royal cause, compromised
it in the most serious way.
The army of Liniers was disbanded; the greater part of the soldiers
fell into the hands of the independent party. Moreno, Concha, and
Liniers himself, met with the same fate.
The Junta, on learning this unlooked-for result of a campaign from
which so much was expected, resolved to strike a decisive blow, in
order to intimidate the partisans of the royal cause.
General Liniers was much loved by the people, for he had rendered them
many great services. They could have been saved and freed by him. It
was necessary to avoid this misfortune.
Don Juan José Castelli consequently received the orders to go in
advance of the captives; he obeyed, and they met in the neighbourhood
of Mont Pappagallo.
Then there transpired a horrible scene, that history has justly branded
with disgrace. Without form of trial, in cold blood, all the prisoners'
throats were cut; the bishop of Córdoba alone was spared--not out
of respect for his sacred office, but merely to flatter the popular
prejudices.
Thus died, cowardly assassinated, General Liniers, a man to whom France
justly boasts of having given birth, who rendered such great services
to his adopted country, and whose name will everlastingly live on
American shores, by reason of his noble and splendid qualities.
A new storm burst over the independent party.
The viceroy of Peru sent, under the command of Colonel Córdoba, a corps
d'armée against the Buenos Aireans.
On the 7th November, the two parties met at Hupacha. After a sanguinary
fight, the royalists were conquered, and the greater part made
prisoners.
Castelli, who, we have seen, massacred Liniers and his companions, had
followed the royalist troops in their march. He did not wish to leave
his work incomplete: the prisoners were all shot on the field of battle.
The viceroy of Peru, dismayed by this disaster, asked a truce, which
the Junta consented to accord to him.
But the struggle was far from ended. Spain was by no means disposed
to abandon, without being constrained to do so by force of arms, the
magnificent countries where, during a long time, her flag had peaceably
floated, and from whence she derived immense riches; and, at the moment
when our history recommences, the independence of the Buenos Airean
provinces, far from being assured, was again seriously imperilled.
The subjects of the new power had not been long in entering into battle
with each other, and in sacrificing to their own miserably ambitious
views the most sacred interests of their country, in inaugurating that
era of fratricidal war which is not yet finished, and which is leading
these beautiful and rich territories to an inevitable ruin.
At the moment when we resume our recital, the Spanish party, for a
time subdued, had raised their head again; the colonists, scarcely
emancipated, had never found themselves in so great danger of perishing.
The Spanish general, Pezuela, at the head of his experienced troops,
made great progress in Peru. On the 25th November he gained a signal
victory at Viluma, had retaken Chuguisaca, Potosí, and Tunca; his
guards reached Cinti, and some squadrons of volunteer guerillas,
partisans of Spain, ravaged almost with impunity the frontier of the
province of Tucumán.
The situation was then most critical. The war had lost nothing of its
original ferocity; each party appeared to be composed of brigands
thirsting for blood and pillage, rather than of brave soldiers or
loyal patriots. The road was infested by people without abode, who
turned coats according to circumstances, and made war on the two
parties according to the exigencies of the moment. The Indians,
profiting by these disorders, fished in troubled waters, and chased the
whites--royalists or insurgents.
Then, to put the finishing touch to so many misfortunes, a Brazilian
army, ten thousand strong, commanded by General Lesort, had invaded
the province of Monte Video, which had been for a long time coveted by
Brazil, and on which it hoped, favoured by the intestine dissensions of
the Buenos Aireans, to seize almost without striking a blow.
It will be easily understood how precarious was the situation of
European travellers, necessarily isolated in this country, not knowing
either the language or the manners of the people into whose midst they
found themselves thrown, and thus cast unawares into the midst of this
revolutionary whirlwind, which, like an African simoom, was pitilessly
devouring all with which it came in contact.
We shall now return to the two Frenchmen, whom we left carelessly
stretched on the grass on the shore of the river, discoursing of
various matters.
The view of the second troop, discovered by the painter, had excited
to the highest degree the curiosity of his companion. Let us hasten to
state that this uneasiness was more than justified by the excessively
suspicious appearance of the horsemen.
They were about fifty in number, well mounted, and armed to the teeth
with long lances, sabres, poignards, and blunderbusses. These horsemen
were evidently Spaniards. Their features, bronzed by the sun and the
air of the desert, indicated intelligence and bravery; there was in
them something of the haughty and determined bearing of the first
Spanish conquerors, from whom they descended in a direct line, without
degenerating. Still masters of a great part of the American territory,
they did not admit that they could ever be chased from it by the
independent party, notwithstanding the victories gained by the latter.
Although riding at a gallop, they advanced in good order; their chests
covered with a cuirass of buffalo skin, intended to shield them from
the Indian arrows, the lance fixed in the stirrup, the blunderbuss in
the bow, the turned sabre in the scabbard, knocking against the spur
with a metallic sound.
At ten paces in advance of the troop came a young man of haughty mien,
of proud and noble features, with a full black eye, a sarcastic mouth,
shaded by a fine black moustache, coquettishly oiled and turned up at
the ends.
This young man bore the insignia of a captain, and commanded the
troop which followed him. He was about twenty-five years of age;
while galloping, he played, with a charming air, with his horse, a
magnificent specimen of the untamed coursers of the pampa, who, while
spoken to and handled with the nervous delicacy of a woman, curvetted,
leaped on one side, and sometimes brought a frown and an ill-humoured
grimace to the bronzed and battered countenance of an old sergeant, who
was galloping in the rear of the right of the company.
Meanwhile, the distance between the two troops rapidly diminished, and
the travellers found themselves, so to speak, the common centre of them.
The two Frenchmen, without saying a word, but as by common consent, had
put themselves in the saddle, and in the middle of the track waited,
calm and dignified, but their hands on their weapons, and doubtless
inwardly uneasy, although they did not wish to appear so.
The second troop, of which we have not yet spoken, was composed of
some thirty horsemen at the most, all wearing the characteristic and
picturesque costume of the gauchos of the pampa. In the midst they led
a dozen mules, loaded with baggage.
Arrived at fifteen paces from the travellers, the two troops halted,
appearing to measure one another with their eyes, and mutually
preparing for the combat.
To an indifferent spectator, certainly it would have been a strange
spectacle offered by these three groups of men, thus boldly camped in
the midst of the desert plain, looking defiantly at each other, and,
nevertheless, stationary, and appearing to hesitate to charge.
Some minutes passed by.
The young officer, no doubt wishing to bring affairs to a crisis, and
wearied with a hesitation he did not appear to share, advanced, making
his horse to caracole, and carelessly twirling his moustache.
Arrived at some five or six paces from the travellers:
"Hola, good people," said he, in a sardonic voice, "what do you do
there? With a frightened air like nandus in a covey altogether. You do
not intend, I suppose, to bar our passage?"
"We have no pretensions of the kind, Señor Captain," answered M.
Dubois, in the best Castilian he could manage--Castilian which,
notwithstanding his efforts, was deplorable; "we are peaceable
travellers."
"¡Caray!" cried the officer, turning round and laughing; "Whom have we
here; English, I suppose?"
"No, Señor; Frenchmen," said M. Dubois, with a somewhat nettled look.
"Bah! English or French, what matters?" pursued the officer, with
raillery "They are all heretics."
At this manifestation of ignorance, the two travellers shrugged their
shoulders with contempt.
"What does that mean?" said the officer.
"Parbleu," answered the painter, "it means that you are deceiving
yourself grossly, that is all. We are as good Catholics as you are, if
not better."
"Aye, rye, you crow very loud, my young cock."
"Young," said the artist, with a sneer, "you are deceived there again;
I am at least two years older than you; as to crowing, it is very easy
to swagger and act the 'eater up of little children,' when you are
fifty to two."
"Those people down there," pursued the officer, "are they not with you?"
"Yes, they are with us; but what matters that? In the first place, they
are inferior to you in number, and next, they are not soldiers."
"Agreed," answered the captain, twirling his moustache with a mocking
smile, "I grant you that; what do you wish to conclude from it?"
"Only this, Captain; that we Frenchmen bear insults with great
difficulty, no matter where they come from; and that if we were only
equal in numbers, this would not have happened."
"Aha, you are brave!"
"Pardieu; revenge is sweet."
"That is swagger also, it appears to me."
"It is an honourable boast."
"Listen," said the captain, after a moment, with exquisite politeness.
"I fear I have been deceived with regard to you, and I sincerely ask
your pardon for it. I agree to give you free passage, and to those who
accompany you, but on one condition."
"Let us have it!"
"You told me a little while ago that I should not speak as I did, had I
not believed I should be supported."
"I told you so, because I thought so."
"And you think so still, no doubt?"
"Pardieu!"
"Well, here is what I propose; we are both armed. Let us alight, draw
our sabres, and he who shall conquer the other shall be free to act as
he thinks proper--that is to say, if it is you, you can pass on your
road without fear of being molested, and if it is me, well, a general
battle. Does that suit you?"
"Perfectly well," answered the painter, laughing.
"What are you going to do, Monsieur Émile?" cried the old man, briskly.
"Do you mean to expose yourself to great danger for a cause which in
truth is indifferent to you, and only concerns me?"
"Come," said he, shrugging his shoulders, "are we not fellow
countrymen? Your cause is mine. Let me give a lesson to that Spanish
braggart, who imagines that Frenchmen are poltroons."
And, without wishing to hear more, he disengaged his foot from the
stirrup, leaped to the ground, drew his sabre, and struck its point in
the earth, waiting the good pleasure of his adversary.
"But, at least, do you know how to fight?" cried M. Dubois, a prey to
the greatest anxiety.
"You are joking," said he, laughing. "Of what use would be the
five-and-twenty years' war that France has had, if her sons had not
learnt to fight? But make yourself easy," added he, seriously, "I have
had eighteen months' instruction in sword exercise, and learned to
wield the sabre like a hussar; moreover, we artists know this sort of
thing by instinct."
Meanwhile, the captain had also alighted, after having ordered his
troop to remain spectators of the combat. The horsemen had shaken their
heads; they had, however, not made any remark, but the old sergeant, of
whom we have spoken, and who, without doubt, enjoyed certain liberties
with his chief, took a few steps in advance, and thought proper to
hazard a respectful protest.
The captain, without answering him, made him a mute gesture of a
character so decided and imperious, that the worthy soldier stepped
back quite snubbed, and resumed his former position without daring to
risk a second remonstrance.
"Never mind," he grumbled, between his teeth, twirling his moustache
with a furious air; "if this heretic gets the best of it, whatever Don
Lucio may say, I know well what I shall do."
The young captain briskly alighted, and advanced towards his adversary,
whom he saluted politely.
"I am fortunate," said he, graciously, "in the opportunity which
presents itself of receiving from a Frenchman a lesson in fencing, for
you have the reputation of being a complete master in arms."
"Eh! Perhaps what you say is more true than you think, Señor," answered
the painter, with a smile of raillery; "but if service fails us
sometimes, goodwill never forsakes us."
"I am convinced of it, Monsieur."
"Whenever you please to commence, Captain, I am at your orders."
"And I at yours, Señor."
The two adversaries saluted one another with the sabre, and put
themselves on guard at the same moment, with perfect grace.
The sabre is, in our opinion, an arm too much disdained, and which
ought, on the contrary, to have the preference over the sword in duels,
as it has in battles.
The sabre is the true weapon of the military man--officer or soldier.
The sword is, on the contrary, only an arm for a gentleman on parade,
and is now assumed by persons who, for the most part, carry it at their
sides without knowing how to use it.
The sword is a serpent, its bite is mortal. It makes one liable, in
using it for a futile cause in a duel, to kill a brave man. The sabre,
on the contrary, only makes large wounds which it is easy to heal, and
which nearly always it is possible to graduate according to the gravity
of the offence received, without risking the life of one's adversary.
The two men, as we have said, had put themselves on their guard. After
another bow, the combat commenced, and they exchanged a few passes,
mutually feeling their way, as it were, and only using their weapons
with extreme prudence.
The Spanish officer was what may be called a good duellist. With a
somewhat effeminate appearance, he had a wrist of iron and muscles
of steel. His style of fencing was broad and elegant; he appeared to
handle his weapon, which was rather heavy, as if he had had a mere reed
in his hand.
The style of the French painter was more compact, more nervous, his
blows, more unforeseen, and certainly more rapid.
However, the combat did not last long, before it was easy to see with
whom would rest the victory. On a sudden, the sabre of the captain
leaped into the air, carried away as if by a sling, and fell at a great
distance off.
The Frenchman darted off immediately, picked up his adversary's weapon,
and presenting it to him:
"Pardon me, Señor," he said, "and be so good, I beg you, to resume
a weapon which you use so well. I have only taken it from you by
surprise, and I remain at your orders."
"Señor," answered the captain, putting his sabre in the scabbard, "I
have merited the lesson that you have given me. Ten times you have had
my life in your hands without wishing to take advantage of it. Our
combat is finished. I acknowledge myself vanquished, more even by your
courtesy than by your skill in the management of arms."
"I do not admit, caballero," pursued the painter, "that any but
trifling credit is due to me for the advantage that chance alone has
given me over you."
"Go in peace, wherever it may appear good to you, as well as your
companions, Señor. You have no insult to fear from us; only I do not
consider myself quit of you. My name is Don Lucio Ortega, remember that
name. In any circumstances in which you may find yourself, if you have
need of me, be it twenty years hence, boldly ask your old adversary and
friend."
"I really do not know how to thank you, Señor. I am but a poor French
painter, named Émile Gagnepain; but if the opportunity ever presents
itself, I shall be happy to prove how much I value the sentiments of
goodwill that you manifest towards me."
After this mutual exchange of courtesy, the two men mounted on
horseback.
The Spaniards remained motionless at the place where they first
stopped, and they allowed to defile before them, without making the
least hostile movement, the little troop, at the head of which walked
side by side the two Frenchmen. When they passed before him, the
captain exchanged a courteous salute with them, and then he gave his
troop the order to depart. It darted off at a gallop, and before long
had disappeared in the meandering of the track.
"You have been more fortunate than wise," said M. Dubois, to his young
companion, when they had crossed the river, and had made the distance
between them and the Spaniards rather considerable.
"Why so?" asked the painter, with surprise.
"Why, because you have risked being killed."
"My dear sir, in the country where we now are, we continually run
the risk of being killed. In leaving France, I have made a complete
abnegation of my life, persuaded that I shall never again see my
country. I therefore consider every moment which passes without
bringing me misfortune as a favour done me by Providence; so that, my
mind being made up, I do not attach the least value to an existence
which at any moment can be taken from me under the first pretext that
turns up, and even, if need be, under the very slightest provocation."
"You have a rather strange philosophy."
"What can you expect? With the patriots, the royalists, the bandits,
the Indians, and the wild animals that infest this country--blessed by
Heaven as it is--it would be, in my opinion, folly to reckon on more
than four-and-twenty hours of existence, and to form projects for the
future."
M. Dubois burst out laughing.
"Nevertheless," said he, "it is necessary for us to think a little of
the future just now, if it be but to choose the place where we shall
camp for the night."
"Do not let that disquiet you. Have I not said that I would conduct you
to my house."
"You have proposed it to me, it is true, but I do not know if I ought
to accept your hospitality."
"It will be modest, for I am not rich--far from it; but you may depend
it will be cordial."
"But the embarrassment that so great a number of guests will occasion
you--"
"You are jesting, Monsieur, or you know very little of Spanish customs.
Your people will not cause me any embarrassment."
"Since it is so, then, I accept without further ceremony, so as to pass
a few hours more in your charming company."
"Bravo; that is agreed," gaily said the young man; "now, if you will
permit me, I will be your guide; for without my assistance, it would be
very difficult to find my habitation."
The painter then, in fact, assumed the superintendence of the caravan,
and, turning it to the left, he led it by the tracks of wild animals,
scarcely perceptible in the grass, to the summit of a gently rising
hill, which commanded a view of the plain to a great distance. It was
crowned by several buildings, the extent and importance of which the
darkness prevented the travellers from deciding.
M. Dubois had only been joined at an hour considerably advanced by his
assistants and his escort. The quarrel that had so suddenly been raised
by the Spanish captain had caused a rather considerable loss of time,
so that the day was far advanced when the travellers could at last
resume their journey, and the night had closed in upon them when they
ultimately reached the habitation of the young Frenchman.
They had arrived at the foot of the hill, when they saw several lights
moving rapidly, and two or three men furnished with torches running
before them.
These men were the Indian servants of the painter, who had been a long
time watching for the arrival of their master, and who, at the sound of
the horses, came to offer him their services.
The installation of the travellers was neither long nor difficult. The
mules unloaded, and the baggage placed under a shed, the animals were
unsaddled and tied up. The servants gave them provender; then they
lighted large fires to cook their supper, and gaily prepared themselves
to pass the night in the open air.
M. Dubois and his young companion alone had entered the house, or
rather the rancho--for this modest dwelling, built of reeds and clay,
and covered with leaves, gave access on all sides to wind and rain, and
scarcely merited the name of a cottage.
The interior, however, was neat, and carefully arranged, and supplied
with simple but good furniture.
"Here is the salon and the dining room, which we shall later in the
evening transform into a sleeping room," said the artist, laughing;
"for the present, we will put it to use as a dining room, and will
proceed to supper, if you please."
"Nothing will suit me better," answered M. Dubois, pleasantly; "I even
promise you that I shall do honour to the supper. I have a tremendous
appetite."
"So much the better, then, for the quantity of the repast will make you
overlook its quality."
The young man clapped his hands. Almost immediately an Indian woman
appeared, and prepared the table, which, in a very brief time was
covered with simple dishes, hastily prepared. M. Dubois had opened his
bottle case, and had taken from it several bottles, which produced an
excellent effect in the primitive receptacle on the middle of the table.
On the invitation of his host, the old man seated himself, and the
repast commenced.
After a long day of travelling in the desert, exposed to the heat of
the sun and to the dust, people are not very particular as to the
quality of the provisions. Appetite makes one consider that to be
good which, at another time, would not be touched with the end of the
finger. Thus, the aristocratic guest of the painter, making the best of
his position, resolutely commenced the attack on what was placed before
him; and, contrary to his presentiments, everything was found, if not
excellent, at all events eatable.
When supper was over, and the wine vessel taken away, the painter,
after a few minutes' conversation, wished his guest a cordial good
night, and withdrew.
The latter, as soon as he was alone, changed his mantle into a
mattress--that is to say, he stretched it on the table, laid himself
down on it, enveloped himself carefully in it, and slept.
He could not have told how long he had been sleeping, when all of a
sudden he was rudely awakened by cries of fright and of rage raised
at a little distance from him, and with which were almost immediately
mingled several shots.
M. Dubois rose in the utmost anxiety, and rushed out to discover the
cause of this extraordinary tumult.