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The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

Chapter Forty Four
The Abbot

“Amigo,” said their host, as he rejoined them, speaking to Kearney, who could alone understand him, “permit me to offer you a cigar – your comrade also – with my apologies for having forgotten that you smoked. Here are both Havannahs and Manillas, several brands of each. So choose for yourself.”

The mayor-domo, who attended him, carrying a huge mahogany case, had already placed it upon one of the rustic benches, and laid open the lid.

“Thanks, holy father,” responded Kearney, with a peculiar smile. “If you have no objection, I’ll stick to the Imperadoes. After smoking one of them a man need have no difficulty as to choice.”

At which he took an “Emperor” out of the case.

“I’m glad you like them,” observed the generous donor, helping him to a light. “They ought to be of good quality, considering what they cost, and where they come from. But, Don Florencio, don’t let the question of expense hinder you smoking as many as you please. My outlay on them was nil– they were a contribution to the monastery, though not exactly a charitable one.”

He said this with a sort of inward laugh, as though some strange history attached to the Imperadoes.

“A forced contribution, then,” thought the Irishman, the remark having made a strange, and by no means pleasant impression upon him.

The Texan had not yet touched the cigars, and when with a gesture the invitation was extended to him, he hung back, muttering to Kearney —

“Tell him, Cap, I’d purfar a pipe ef he ked accomerdate me wi’ thet ’ere article.”

“What says the Señor Cristoforo?” asked the Abbot.

“He’d prefer smoking a pipe, if you don’t object, and there be such a thing convenient.”

“Oh! un pipa. I shall see. Gregorio!”

He called after the mayor-domo, who was returning toward the house.

“Never mind, reverend Father,” protested Kearney; “content yourself with a cigar, Cris, and don’t give trouble.”

“I’m sorry I spoke o’ it,” said the Texan. “I oughter be only too gled to git a seegar, an’ it may be he wudn’t mind my chawin’, stead o’ smokin’ it! My stammuck feels starved for a bit o’ bacca. What wouldn’t I gie jest now for a plug o’ Jeemes’s River!”

“There, take one of the cigars and eat it if you like; I’m sure he’ll have no objection.”

Availing himself of the leave thus vicariously accorded the Texan picked out one of the largest in the collection, and, biting off about a third, commenced crunching it between his teeth, as though it was a piece of sugar-stick. This to the no small amusement of the Mexican, who, however, delicately refrained from making remark.

Nor was Cris hindered from having a smoke as well as a “chew,” – the mayor-domo soon after appearing with a pipe, a somewhat eccentric affair he had fished out from the back regions of the establishment.

Meanwhile their host had himself lit one of the “Emperors,” and was smoking away like a chimney. A somewhat comical sight at any time, or in any place, is a monk with a cigar in his mouth. But that the Abbot of the Cerro Ajusco was no anchorite they were already aware, and saw nothing in it to surprise them.

Seating himself beside Kearney, with face turned towards the valley, he put the question —

“What do you think of that landscape, Don Florencio?”

“Magnificent! I can’t recall having looked upon lovelier, or one with greater variety of scenic detail. It has all the elements of the sublime and beautiful.”

The young Irishman was back in his college classics with his countryman Burke.

“Make use of this,” said the Abbot, offering a small telescope which he drew out. “’Twill give you a better view of things.”

Taking the glass and adjusting it to his sight, Kearney commenced making survey of the valley, now bringing one portion of it within the field of telescopic vision, then another.

“Can you see the Pedregal?” asked the Abbot. “It’s close in to the mountain’s foot. You’ll recognise it by its sombre grey colour.”

“Certainly I see it,” answered the other, after depressing the telescope. “And the thicket we came through on its further side – quite distinctly.”

“Look to the right of that, then you’ll observe a large house, standing in the middle of the maguey fields. Have you caught it?”

“Yes; why do you ask?”

“Because that house has an interest for me – a very special one. Whom do you suppose it belongs to; or I should rather say did, and ought to belong to?”

“How should I know, holy father?” asked Kearney, thinking it somewhat strange his being so interrogated. “True,” responded the Abbot; “how could you, my son? But I’ll tell you. That magueyal is mine by right, though by wrong ’tis now the property of our late host, the Governor of the Acordada. His reward at the last confiscation for basely betraying his country and our cause.”

“What cause?” inquired the young Irishman, laying aside the glass, and showing more interest in what he heard than that he had been looking at. Country and cause! These were not the words likely to be on the lips of either monk or highwayman.

And that the man who had spoken to him was neither one nor other he had fuller proof in what was now further said.

“A cause, Señor Irlandes, for which I, Ruperto Rivas, am ready to lay down life, if the sacrifice be called for, and so most – I may say all – of those you’ve just met at almuerzo. You heard it proclaimed in the toast, ‘Patria y Libertad!’”

“Yes. And a grand noble sentiment it is. One I was gratified to hear.”

“And surprised as well. Is not that so, amigo?”

“Well, to be frank with you, holy father, I confess to something of the sort.”

“Not strange you should, my son. No doubt you’re greatly perplexed at what you’ve seen and heard since you came up here, with much before. But the time has come to relieve you; so light another cigar and listen.”

Chapter Forty Five
The Free Lances

“Try a Manilla this time,” said the Mexican, as Kearney was reaching out to take a cigar from the case. “Most people believe that the best can only come from Cuba. A mistake, that. There are some made in the Philippine Islands equal – in my opinion, superior – to any Havannahs. I speak of a very choice article, which don’t ever get into the hands of the dealers, and’s only known to the initiated. Some of our ricos import them by way of Acapulco. Those are a fair sample.”

The young Irishman made trial of the weed thus warmly recommended; to discover what contradicted all his preconceived ideas in the smoking line. He had always heard it said that the choicest cigars are Havannahs; but, after a few whiffs from that Manilla, which had never seen a cigar shop, he was willing to give up the “Imperadores.” His host, lighting one of the same, thus proceeded: “Pues, caballero; to give you the promised explanation. That the monks of my community are of an order neither very devout nor austere, you’ve already observed, no doubt, and may have a suspicion they’re not monks at all. Soldiers, every man; most having seen service, and many who have done gallant deeds. When I speak of them as soldiers, you will understand it in its true sense, Señor. With one or two exceptions, all have held commissions in our army, and with a like limitation, I may say all are gentlemen. The last revolution, which has again cursed our country by restoring its chronic tyrant, Santa Anna, of course threw them out; the majority, as myself, being proscribed, with a price set upon their heads.”

“Then you’re not robbers?”

This was said without thought, the words involuntarily escaping Kearney’s lips. But the counterfeit abbot, so far from feeling offence at them, broke out into a laugh, good-humouredly rejoining —

“Robbers, amigo mio! who told you we were that?”

The Irishman felt abashed, seeing he had committed himself.

“Don Ruperto,” he exclaimed, hastening to make the best of his blunder, “I owe you every apology. It arose from some talk I heard passing around in the prison. Be assured, I neither did nor could believe it.”

“Thank you, Señor!” returned the Mexican. “Your apologies are appreciated. And,” he added, putting on a peculiar smile, “in a way superfluous. I believe we do enjoy that repute among our enemies; and, to confess the truth, not without some reason.”

Kearney pricked up his ears, perplexity, with just a shade of trouble, again appearing upon his face. He said nothing, however, allowing the other to proceed.

“Carramba, yes!” continued the proscript. “’Tis quite true we do a little in the plundering line – now and then. We need doing it, Don Florencio. But for that, I mightn’t have been able to set so good a breakfast before you; nor wines of such quality, nor yet these delectable cigars. If you look to the right down there, you’ll see the pueblo of San Augustin, and just outside its suburbs, a large yellow house. From that came our last supply of drinkable and smokeable materials, including those here, mahogany and everything. A forced contribution, as I’ve hinted at. But, Señor, I should be sorry to have you think we levy blackmail indiscriminately. He from whom they were taken is one of our bitterest enemies; equally an enemy of our country. ’Twas all in the way of reprisal; fair, as you’ll admit, when you come to comprehend the circumstances.”

“I comprehend them now,” returned the listener, relieved, “quite; and I trust you’ll accept my apology.”

“Sans arrière pensée,” responded the Mexican, who could speak French, if not English, “I do frankly, freely. No reproach to you for supposing us robbers. I believe many others do, among whom we make appearance. Southward, however, in the State of Oaxaca, we are better known as ‘the Free Lances’; a title not so appropriate, either, since our weapons are only at the disposal of the Republic – our lives as well.”

“But,” questioned Kearney, “may I ask why you are habited as I now see you?”

“For a good reason, amigo. It adds to our security, giving all sorts of opportunities. Throughout Mexico, the cowl of the monk is the best passport a man could be provided with. Wearing it, we go about among the mountain villages without suspicion, the people believing that this old monastery, so long abandoned as to have been forgotten, has again become the dwelling-place of a religious order. Of course we don’t allow any of the rustics to approach it. Luckily, they are not curious enough to care for that, against the toil of climbing up here. If they attempt it, we have sentinels to stay them. For ourselves, we have learned to play the part of the holy friar, so that there would be difficulty in detecting the counterfeit. As it chances, we have with us one or two who once wore the cowl. These perverts have taught us all the tricks and passwords current among the fraternity. Hitherto they have availed us, and I trust will, till the time arrives for our casting off our cassock, and putting on the soldier’s coat. That day is not distant, Don Florencio; nearer than I expected, from what my comrades have told me since we came up. The State of Oaxaca is disaffected; as, indeed, the whole southern side of Acapulco, and a grito is anticipated ere long – possibly within a month. Alvarez, who controls in that quarter, will be the man to raise it; and the old Pinto chief will expect to be joined by the ‘Free Lances.’ Nor will he be disappointed. We are all burning to be at it. So, caballero, you see how it is with us. And now,” he added, changing tone and looking his listener earnestly in the face, “I have a question to put to yourself.”

“What?” asked the Irishman, seeing that he hesitated putting it.

“Will you be one of us?”

It was now Kearney’s turn to hesitate about the answer he ought to make. A proposition fraught with such consequences required consideration. To what would he be committing himself if he consented? And what if he should refuse? Besides, under the circumstances, was he free to refuse? That of itself was a question, a delicate one. He and his comrade, Cris Rock, owed their escape to this strange man, whatever he might be; and to separate from him now, even under full permission, would savour of ingratitude. Still more, after listening to what was further said. For, noting his embarrassment, and deeming it natural enough, the Mexican hastened to relieve him.

“If my proposal be not to your liking, Señor Irlandes, say so; and without fear of offence. All the same, you may rest assured of our protection while you remain with us; and I shall do what I can to get you safe out of the country. At all events, I won’t send you back to the Acordada gaol, and the tender care of its governor. So you can speak frankly, without reserve. Are you willing to be one of us?”

“I am!” was the answer, given without further hesitation.

Why should he have either hesitated or said nay? In the heart of a hostile country, an escaped prisoner, his life, as he felt sure, forfeited should he be retaken. Joining Rivas and his Free Lances might be his sole chance of saving it. Even had they been banditti, he could not have done better then.

“Yes, Don Ruperto,” he added; “if you deem me worthy of belonging to your brotherhood, be it so. I accept your invitation.”

“And your comrade, Don Cristoforo. Will he be of the same mind, think you?”

“Sure to be. I take it I can answer for him. But you shall hear for yourself. Rock!”

He called to the Texan, who, not understanding their dialogue, had sauntered apart, chewing away at the Imperador.

“Wal, Cap; what’s up now?” he asked on rejoining them.

“They’re no robbers, Cris,” said Kearney, speaking freely in their own tongue.

“Gled to hear it. I didn’t think they war – noways. Nor monks neyther, I guess?”

“Nor monks.”

“What then, Cap?”

“The same as yourself. Patriots who have been fighting for their country, and got defeated. That’s why they are here – in hiding.”

“Yes, Cap; I see it all, clar as coon’s track on a mud bar. Enemies o’ ole Santy, who’ve got beat it thar last risin’.”

“Just so. But they expect another rising soon, and wish us to join them. I’ve agreed, and said so. What say you?”

“Lordy, Cap; what a questun to be axed, an’ by yurself! Sure this chile air boun’ to stick to ye, whatsomever ye do. Ef they’d been brigants, I shed ’a put my conscience in my pocket, and goe’d in wi’ ’em all the same; s’long you’re agreed. Nor I wudn’t ’a minded turning monk for a spell. But men who intend foughtin’ for freedom? Haleluyah! Cris Rock air all thar! Ye may tell him so.”

“He consents,” said Kearney, reporting to the Mexican; “and willingly as myself. Indeed, Don Ruperto, we ought both to regard it as a grace – an honour – to be so associated, and we shall do the best we can to show ourselves worthy of it.”

“Mil gracias, Señor! The grace and honour are all given to us. Two such valientes, as I know you to be, will be no slight acquisition to our strength. And now, may I ask you to assume the garb which, as you see, is our present uniform? That by way of precaution for the time. You’ll find suitable raiment inside. I’ve given Gregorio orders to get it ready. So you see, Camarades, I’ve been counting upon you.”

“Gehosofat!” exclaimed the Texan, when told of the dress he was expected to put on. “What wi’ New Orleens store close, an’ prison duds, an’ the like, this chile hev had a goodish wheen o’ changes since he stripped off his ole huntin’ shirt. An’ now a-goin’ in for a monk! Wal; tho’ I mayn’t be the most sanctified, I reck’n I’ll be the tallest in thar mon’stery.”

Chapter Forty Six
Saint Augustine of the Caves

One of the pleasantest villages in the valley of Mexico is San Augustin de las Cuevas —Tlalpam by Aztec designation – both names due to some remarkable caverns in the immediate neighbourhood. It is some ten or twelve miles from the capital, on the southern or Acapulco road, just where this, forsaking the valley level, begins to ascend the Sierra, passing over which by Cruz del Marques, it continues on through the tierras calentes of Cuernavaca and Guerrero to the famed port of the Pacific.

San Augustin is a pueblo, endowed with certain municipal privileges. It boasts of an alcalde-mayor with other corporate officers, and a staff of alguezils, or policemen.

The heads of departments are mostly men of pure Spanish race – “gente de razon,” as they proudly proclaim themselves – though many are in reality of mixed blood, Mestizos. Of this are the better class of shopkeepers, few in number, the gente de razon at best forming a scarce discernible element in the population, which is mainly made up of the brown aborigines.

At a certain season of the year, however, paler complexions show in the ascendant. This during carnival time – “Las Pascuas.” Then the streets of San Augustin are crowded with gay promenaders; while carriages and men on horseback may be seen in continuous stream passing to and fro between it and the capital. In Las Pascuas week, one day with another, half Mexico is there engaged in a gambling orgie, as Londoners at Epsom during the Derby. More like Homburg and Monaco, though; since the betting at Tlalpam is not upon the swiftness of horses, but done with dice and cards. The national game, “monté,” there finds fullest illustration, grand marquees being erected for its play – real temples erected to the goddess Fortuna. Inside these may be seen crowds of the strangest composition, in every sense heterogeneous; military officers, generals and colonels, down to the lowest grade, even sergeants and corporals, sitting at the same table and staking on the same cards; members of Congress, Senators, Cabinet Ministers, and, upon occasions, the Chief of the State, jostling the ragged lepero, and not unfrequently standing elbow to elbow with the footpad and salteador! – Something stranger still, ladies compose part of this miscellaneous assemblage; dames of high birth and proud bearing, but in this carnival of cupidity not disdaining to “punt” on the sota or cavallo, while brushing skirts with bare-armed, barefooted rustic damsels, and poblanas, more elaborately robed, but with scantier reputation.

After all, it is only Baden on the other side of the Atlantic; and it may be said in favour of San Augustin, the fury lasts for only a few days, instead of a whole season. Then the monté banks disappear, with their dealers and croupiers; the great tents are taken down; the gamesters, gentle and simple, scatter off, most going back to the city; and the little pueblo Tlalpam, resuming its wonted tranquillity, is scarce thought of till Carnival comes again.

In its normal condition, though some might deem it rather dull, it is nevertheless one of the pleasantest residential villages in the Valley. Picturesquely situated at the foot of the southern Sierras, which form a bold mountain background, it has on the other side water scenery in the curious Laguna de Xochimilco, while the grim Pedregal also approaches it, giving variety to its surroundings.

Besides its fixed population there is one that may be termed floating or intermittent; people who come and go. These are certain “ricos,” who chiefly affect its suburbs, where they have handsome houses —casas de campo. Not in hundreds, as at San Anjel and Tacubaya, Tlalpam being at a greater and more inconvenient distance from the capital. Still there are several around it of first-class, belonging to familias principales, though occupied by them only at intervals, and for a few days or weeks at a time.

One of these, owned by Don Ignacio Valverde, was a favourite place of residence with him; a tranquil retreat of which he was accustomed to avail himself whenever he could get away from his ministerial duties. Just such an interregnum had arisen some time after the stirring incidents we have recorded, and he went to stay at his San Augustin house with his daughter, the Condesa Almonté going with them as their guest. Since their last appearance before the reader, all three had passed through scenes of trial. An investigation had been gone into regarding the Callé de Plateros affair – private, however, before Santa Anna himself, the world not being made the wiser for it. Its results were all in their favour, thanks to the stern, stubborn fidelity of José, who lied like a very varlet. Such a circumstantial story told he, no one could suspect him of complicity in the escape of the forsados; far less that his mistress, or the Condesa Almonté had to do with it.

Don Ignacio, too, had done his share to hinder discovery of the truth. For, in the end, it was found necessary to take him into the secret, the missing cloak and pistols, with several mysterious incidents, calling for explanation. But in making a clean breast of it, his daughter had felt no fear of being betrayed by him. He was not the father to deal harshly with his child; besides, it was something more – a real danger. In addition, she knew how he was affected towards the man she had aided to escape – that he held Don Florencio in highest esteem; looked upon him as a dear friend, and in a certain tacit way had long ago signified approval of him for a son-in-law. All these thoughts passed through Luisa Valverde’s mind while approaching her father, and steeling herself to make confession of that secret she might otherwise have kept from him.

The result was not disappointing. Don Ignacio consented to the deception, and they were saved. Whatever the suspicions of Santa Anna and his adjutant, both were baffled about that affair, at least for the time.

Alike had they been frustrated in their pursuit of the escapados. Despite the most zealous search through the Pedregal and elsewhere, these could not be found, nor even a trace of them. Still, they were not given up. Every town and village in the valley, in the mountains around, and the country outside were visited by soldiers or spies – every spot likely to harbour the fugitives. Pickets were placed everywhere and patrols despatched, riding the roads by night as by day, all proving abortive.

After a time, however, this vigorous action became relaxed. Not that they who had dictated were less desirous of continuing it; but because a matter of more importance than mere personal spite or vengeance was soon likely to declare itself, and threaten their own safety. Talk was beginning to be heard, though only in whispers, and at a far distance from the capital, of a new pronunciamento in preparation. And in making counter-preparations, the Dictator had now enough to occupy all his energies; not knowing the day or the hour he might again hear the cry he so dreaded, “Patria y Libertad.”

Meanwhile the people had ceased to speak of the stirring episode which had occurred in the Callé de Plateros; thought strange only from the odd circumstances attendant, and the fact of two of the fugitives being Tejanos. The city of Mexico has its daily newspapers, and on the morning after a full account of it appeared in El Diario and El Monitor. For all it was but the topic of a week; in ten days no more heard of it; in a month quite forgotten, save by those whom it specially concerned. So varied are the events, so frequent the changes, so strange the Cosas de Mexico!