Майн Рид
The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

Chapter Ten.
The Street of the Sparrows

As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact with the legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise have stunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.

I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain my feet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.

As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see something shining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hilt was in his hand.

My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to intercept my retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could I expect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?

It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by the front door was out of the question. Double barring it would make things no worse.

Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible. Was there a back door? Or a stair up to the azotea?

My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them they lost part of their importance. The man was standing with his back towards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries had followed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they been left to their predilections.

But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door to admit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemed not the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.

As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steel shooting out in front – while he commanded the people to keep back.

The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a long toledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of the lamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence. There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.

He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.

“Leperos!” he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking to inferiors; “What is this disturbance? What are you after?”

“An enemy! A Yankee!”

“Carrambo! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearance you are right,” continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turned half round in the doorway. “But what’s the use?” he continued. “What advantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?”

I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker the handsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Señor!

A bitter chance that should have made him my protector!

“Let them come on!” I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; “I need no protection from you, sir – thanks all the same! I hold the lives of at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, they shall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter the cowardly rabble. Aside, sir!”

If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.

“Carrambo, señor!” he responded, without showing himself in the least chafed by my ungrateful answer. “You are perhaps not aware of the danger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man.”

“You’ll say it, capitano!” shouted one on the outside. “Why not? The Yankee has insulted you. Let’s punish him, if it be only for that!”

“Muera! Muera el Americano!”

My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards the door.

“Al atras, leperos!” shouted my protector. “The first that sets foot over my threshold – humble as it is – I shall spit upon my sword, like a piece of tasajo. You are very brave here in the Callecito de los Pajaros! I doubt whether there’s one among you who has met the enemy – either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!”

“You’re mistaken there, capitan Moreno!” answered a tall dark man who stood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief of the trio who had first attacked me, “Here’s one who has been in both the battles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, not like your noble self – a prisoner upon parole!”

“Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?” sneeringly retorted my protector. “I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind. No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time when prisoners were being taken?”

“Carajo!” screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid with rage. “You say that? You have heard it, camarados? Capitan Moreno sets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of our accursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation – we the citizens of Puebla!”

“No – no, we won’t stand it. Muera el Americano! The Yankee must be delivered up!”

“You must take him, then,” coolly responded Moreno, “at the point of my sword.”

“And at the muzzle of my pistol,” I added, springing to the side of my generous host – determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.

This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrasco and his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and, instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and silent.

They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and this no doubt for the time restrained them.

But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon – first used in battle in that same campaign – and its destructive powers, by report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.

Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo – quick and sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots – what would all have availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen before their fury.

It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet, by my honour, it did exist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in my life.

I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound gratitude – first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for making such a noble man!

The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.

I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate. What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.

My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.

As we stood silent – both defenders and those threatening to attack – a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.

There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it: – the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.

Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the “Street of the Sparrows.”

“La guardia! La patrulla Americana!” (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.

My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth – thinking my assailants would now make way for me.

But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.

Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise – with their knives and machetés only demonstrating in silence!

I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.

If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost – surely sacrificed!

What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the fracas, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late – to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?

I hesitated to tempt the attack.

Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?

O God! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! No sound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had passed the end of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyond hearing!

Ha! a happy thought! That night – I now remembered it – my own corps – the Rifle Rangers – constituted the street patrol. My first Serjeant would be at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code of signals – independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour of fortune, I had upon my person the means of making them – a common dog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in good stead.

In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, and were heard half-way across the City of the Angels.

If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have more effectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless – astounded!

Only for a short while did they thus remain. Then, as if some wild panic had suddenly seized upon them, both footpads and citizens ran scattering away!

In the place they had occupied I could see two score of horses, with the same number of men upon their backs – whose dark green uniforms were joyfully recognised.

With a shout I rushed forth to receive them!

After an interlude of confused congratulations I turned to give thanks – far more than thanks – to Francisco Moreno.

My gratitude was doomed to disappointment. He who so well deserved it was no longer to be seen.

The door, through which I had so fortunately fallen, was closed upon my generous protector!

Chapter Eleven.
The Red Hats

For more than a month after the incidents related, were we of the invading army compelled to endure a semi-seclusion, within cuartels neither very clean nor comfortable.

We should have far preferred the billet; and there were scores of grand “casas” whose owners richly deserved it.

But the thing was out of the question. To have scattered our small force would have been to court the rising we had reason to apprehend.

Our division-general had the good sense to perceive this; and, against the grumbling of both officers and men, insisted upon his injunction – to stay within doors – being rigorously observed.

To me the situation was irksome in the extreme. It gave too much leisure to brood over my bitterness. An active life might have offered some chance of distraction; but inside a barrack – where one grows ennuyed with always seeing the same faces, and tired of the everlasting small talk – even the ordinary routine is sufficiently afflicting. What was it in the heart of a hostile city? What to me, suffering from the humiliation I had experienced?

Only for the sake of excitement did I desire to go out on the streets. The Calle del Obispo had lost its attractions for me; or, rather should I say, they were lost to me. As for visiting the Callecito de los Pajaros, I am sorry to record: that my wounded amour propre was more powerful than my sense of gratitude. I felt more inclined to shun, than seek it.

A month, and there came a change. The streets of La Puebla were once more free to us – by night as by day.

It was caused by the arrival of three or four fresh brigades of the American army: now concentrating to advance upon the capital.

The tables were turned, and the hostile Poblanos were reduced – if not to a state of friendship, at least to one of fear.

They had cause. Along with our troops came a regiment of “Texas Rangers” – the dread of all modern Mexicans – with scores of nondescript camp-followers, by our enemies equally to be dreaded.

Still more to be feared, and shunned, by the citizens of Puebla, was a band of regular robbers, whom General Scott – for some sapient purpose of his own – had incorporated with the American army, under the title of the “Spy Company” – the name taken from the service they were intended to perform.

They were the band of captain – usually styled “colonel” – Dominguez; an ex-officer of Santa Anna’s army, who for years had sustained himself in the mountains around Peroté, and the mal pais of El Piñol – a terror to all travellers not rich enough to command a strong escort of Government “dragones.”

They were true highwaymen —salteadores del camino grande– each mounted on his own horse, and armed with carbine, pistol, lance, or long sword!

They were dressed in various fashions; but generally in the picturesque ranchero costume of jaqueta, calzoneros, and broad-brimmed high-crowned hats; booted, spurred, sashed, laced, and tassel led.

On the shoulders of some might be seen the serapé; while not a few were draped with the magnificent manga.

On joining us they were a hundred and twenty strong, with recognised officers – a captain and a couple of “tenientes,” with the usual number of “sarjentes” and “cabos.”

So close was their resemblance to the guerilleros of the enemy, that, to prevent our men from shooting them by mistake, they had been compelled to adopt a distinguishing badge.

It consisted of a strip of scarlet stuff, worn, bandlike, round their sombreros – with the loose ends dangling down to the shoulder.

The symbol naturally led to a name. They were known to our soldiers as the “Red Hats” – the phrase not unfrequently coupled with a rude adjunctive.

Outlawed in their own land – now associated with its invaders – it is scarce necessary to say that the Red Hats were an object of terror wherever they had a chance of showing their not very cheerful faces.

And in no place more than La Puebla; that had given birth to at least one-half of them, and to all of them, at one time or another, shelter within its gaols!

Now returned to it under the aegis of the American eagle, there was a fine opportunity for the Red Hats to settle old scores with alcaldes, reyidores, and the like; and they were not backward in availing themselves of it.

The consequence was, that the Poblanos soon laid aside their bullying tone; and were only too well pleased when allowed to pass tranquilly through their own streets.

I was one among many other officers of the American army who felt disgust at this association with salteadores– solely an idea of our superannuated commander-in-chief, since celebrated as the “hero” of Bull’s Run.

Endowed with a wonderful conceit in his “strategical combinations,” the employment of the Spy company was one in which he felt no little pride; while we regarded it as a positive disgrace.

The act might have been allowable under the pressure of a severe necessity. But none such existed. In the anarchical land invaded by us we could have found spies enough – without appealing to its cut-throats.

It is not to be denied that Dominguez and his robbers did us good service. Faithfulness to our cause was a necessity of their existence. Outlawed before – now doubly estranged by their treason – they were hated by their countrymen with an intensity beyond bounds; and, wherever caught straying beyond our lines, death was their certain doom.

In several skirmishes, into which they were drawn with their own guerilleros, they fought like very tigers – well knowing that, if taken, they had no mercy to expect.

On their side the lex talionis was practised with a loose hand; so loose that it soon became necessary to restrain it; and they were no longer allowed to go scouting on their own account. Whenever their services were required, they had to be performed under the eye of an officer of mounted rifles or dragoons, with a troop of these acting in concert.

But the terror originally inspired by them continued till the end of the campaign; and the sight of a Red Hat coming along the street was sufficient to terrify the women, and send the children screaming within doors.

In no place were our red-handed allies held in greater detestation than in the city of La Puebla – partly from the striking resemblance borne to them by a large number of its population, and an antipathy on this account; partly from old hostilities; and, perhaps, not a little from the fact of our having there, more than elsewhere, permitted them to carry out their proclivities.

There was a sort of tacit consent to their swaggering among the Poblanos; as a punishment to the latter for the trouble, which their swaggering had caused to us.

It was only for a time, however; and, when things appeared to be going too far, the good old Anglo-American morality – inculcated by the township school– resumed its sway over the minds of our soldiers; and the Red Hats were coerced into better behaviour.

Chapter Twelve.
“Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo.”

Now that its streets were no longer obstructed by the fear of mob violence, or midnight assassination, we had an opportunity of exploring the “City of the Angels.”

A fine old town we found it – with its grand cathedral, of which, according to monkish legend, real angels were the architects; its scores of capillas and parroquias; its hundreds of massive stone and stuccoed houses; and its thousands of adobé dwellings.

Besides those standing, we discovered whole streets that had fallen to decay; barrios of uninhabited ruins, covered with a weed-tangle of convolvuli, cowage, and other creepers, growing in green luxuriousness over the chaos of crumbling walls.

No other evidence is needed to prove that La Puebla, still the third city of Anahuac, was once much grander than it is to-day.

I sought distraction in wandering through its streets; though there was one into which I never went – the Calle del Obispo.

I shunned it with as much zeal as if there had been a plague in it; though I knew it contained una cosa muy linda– the fairest thing in the city of Puebla.

And it was for this that I shunned it. Since I had no longer the slightest hope of possessing Mercedes Villa-Señor, I was acting in accordance with the counsel of a friend, sager than myself, to whom I had communicated the story of my illusion. The course advised by him was to forget her, – if I could.

“Don’t go near again, nor see her on any account,” were the words of my wise counsellor. “It’s the only plan with a passion like yours – suddenly conceived, and, perhaps, founded on a mistaken fancy. She may not be such perfection, after all. You’ve had but a poor chance of judging. Beauty in the balcony is sometimes wonderfully changed when it descends into the street. No doubt this damsel at close quarters would turn out very different from what you describe her. It’s only imagination.”

“No imagination could create such a form – such a face – such – ”

“Such fiddlesticks! Come, old fellow! Don’t give way to this confounded romancing. I venture to say, that, if you could see her at six feet distance, and under a good strong light, you’d be completely disenchanted. The same tripe-coloured skin all these Spanish women have – that won’t bear the sun upon it. I wouldn’t give one of our fair-haired Saxon girls for a whole shipload of them.”

“Take my advice,” continued my mentor, whose leaning was towards light hair; “don’t see her again. If she should prove plain, it would only cause you a chagrin to discover it; and, if she really be the angel you think she is, better you should never more meet her – except in heaven! From what you’ve told me, she’s either engaged to this young fellow, or in the fair way of being made a fool of – a thing not so uncommon among the damsels of this good city. In either case there’s no chance for you. Give up fretting about her. It will be easy as falling off a log. Don’t go into the street where she lives; though I don’t suppose there’d be much danger of seeing her if you did – now that those rascally Red Hats are about. In a month more we’ll be on the march for the Halls of the Moctezumas; and there you’ll either get a bullet in your abdomen, or another shot through the heart, from a pair of eyes perhaps as sparkling as those of the Villa-Señor.”

The word “never” was upon my lips, and the thought was in my mind. I did not utter it, knowing that my friend would only laugh at me.

“Un clavo saca otro clavo,” (one nail drives out another), continued my Job’s comforter; “A proverb of their own exactly applicable to your case. Ah! well do they understand the intricacies and tricks of love. These same Spaniards understood them three hundred years ago; while we simple Saxons only knew them as instincts. No doubt Miss Mercedes has often heard the proverb – perhaps often practised it. So take my advice, old boy, and do you the same. Take for your motto, ‘un clavo saca otro clavo!’”

“All very well for you, who have no love to be expelled. That is a thing not so easy, as you imagine.”

“Bah! Easy enough. Look around you. I’ll warrant you’ll see plenty of beautiful women – according to your style – among these dark-complexioned señoritas. Go out upon the streets – into the Alameda – to church – anywhere, excepting into the ‘street of the bishop.’”

I followed my friend’s advice, and sought for the “un clavo” that should force out the “otro clavo.” I did not succeed in finding it. The first nail held its place in my heart, despite every endeavour to draw it.

Still did I persevere in the resolution to see Mercedes no more – stern struggle though it cost me.

It was not necessary I should shut my eyes, while passing through the streets. There was little likelihood of my encountering her by chance. More than ever did the ladies keep to their seclusion. And no wonder, during the reign of the Red Hats.

The few who sallied forth in carriages, for a drive round the Alameda, were either the wives of foreign merchants, or belonging to one of the half dozen families, who, from interested motives, had become, for the time, “Ayankeado.”

With these exceptions, we saw only the little brown-skinned leperas, in their hideous slate-coloured rebosos; and now and then, when chance conducted us to a fandango, a few flaunting specimens of the class “poblana,” whose patriotism was not proof against our purses.

Among the élite our epaulettes were not specially attractive; and our company was altogether tabooed. The gown appeared to take the shine out of the sword. The soldier might rule in the streets; but within doors the sleek curas had it all their own way.

It was these last to whom we were chiefly indebted for the taboo; and of course we hated them accordingly.

For my part, I cared but little. If the donçellas of Puebla had made me ever so welcome, I could not have responded to their smiles. The wound I had received from one of them was sufficient for the time; and, so long as it remained uncicatrised, I had no zest for a second amour.

For weeks I adhered to the programme traced out by my friend; but without finding the relief he had so confidently prognosticated.

The society of woman was absolutely distasteful to me. I had become almost a gynothrope.

I sought distraction in the company of men; and, I regret to add, men who played monté.

Play is but a sorry resource – though one of the commonest resorted to – for soothing the pangs of an unrequited passion. The coquette makes many a recruit for the gaming table. Homburg has seen its scores of frequenters – sent there by her arts – hanging over its tables with broken hearts – even when fortune seems smiling upon them!

I had no difficulty in discovering a place to practise the soul-absorbing passion. Professional gamblers travelled along with us – as if part of the regular staff of the army. Every division had its “dealer” of “faro” or “monté;” and almost the first canvas spread in an encampment was that which covered the tapis vert of a card table!

In the country it was a tent; in the city a grand saloon, with chandeliers and a set supper.

Our army gamblers usually superintended such places – having established temporary partnerships with the indigenous vultures who owned them.

The game usually played was that universal in Mexico —monté. It was the most convenient – permitting players of all kinds and classes, and equally favourable to the novice as to the skilled gambler. There is no skill required – not much knowledge of any sort. A “banquier,” a “croupier,” a piece of green baize, and a pack of Spanish cards —voilà tout!

There were two or three of these gambling saloons, or “monté banks,” in La Puebla. More likely there were twenty; but two or three were grand establishments – frequented by the Poblanos of the better class; where gold doblones might be seen upon the green cloth as common as silver dollars. They were attachments to the grand Cafés, or Exchanges, that in Mexican cities take the place of our clubs – serving as places of rendezvous for the haciendados, and higher class of commerciantes.

One was much frequented by the officers of our army; though not exclusively by them. The Mexican gentlemen did not deny us their company over the monté table; and around it might be seen representatives of the Teutonic and Latinic races, in nearly equal proportions – with many a type between.

Though the natives were all in civilian costume, we knew that there were among them men who had once worn uniforms. In fact, some of them were our prisoners on parole; whom we had encountered, and captured, at the siege of Vera Cruz, or on the ensanguined summit of Cerro Gordo.

The poverty of these men was too conspicuous to escape observation. Their pay – scant at all times and often in arrears – was now stopped altogether; and how they contrived to live on parole, they and God alone can tell.

It was painful to note their contrivances for keeping up the appearance of gentility. A close inspection of their coats would show where the shoulder-straps and facings had been stripped off – to convert them into civilian garments; and the unfaded stripe, down the seams of their pantaloons, told where the gold lace had once gaily glittered.

They were usually provided with an ample cloth cloak; which in the streets effectually concealed the transformation. But in the hot saloons this could not well be worn; and a man standing behind, as they sat around the monté table, might look upon a pair of shoulders – now plain – that had been lately decorated with the epaulettes of a colonel, or even general!

Their ventures were usually of the most modest kind: beginning with a peseta, and graduating upwards, in proportion to the propitiousness of Fortune. When their luck was good, they gambled with doblones.

Otherwise, the peseta ended their play for the night; but, instead of retiring in despair, they would continue at the table; as though they took a pleasure in contemplating the gains of the more fortunate players, and the losses of the banker!