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The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley
Chapter Sixteen
A Mutual Misapprehension
Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonté were fast friends – so fondly intimate that scarcely a day passed without their seeing one another and exchanging confidences. They lived in the same street; the Condesa having a house of her own, though nominally owned by her grand-aunt and guardian. For, besides being beautiful and possessed of a title – one of the few still found in Mexico, relics of the old régime– Ysabel Almonté was immensely rich; had houses in the city, haciendas in the country, property everywhere. She had a will of her own as well, and spent her wealth according to her inclinations, which were all on the side of generosity, even to caprice. By nature a lighthearted, joyous creature, gay and merry, as one of the bright birds of her country, it was a rare thing to see sadness upon her face. And yet Luisa Valverde, looking down from the mirador, saw that now. There was a troubled expression upon it, excitement in her eyes, attitude, and gestures, while her bosom rose and fell in quick pulsations. True, she had run up the escalera– a stair of four flights – without pause or rest; and that might account for her laboured breathing. But not for the flush on her cheek, and the sparkle in her eyes. These came from a different cause, though the same one which had carried her up the long stairway without pausing to take breath.
She had not enough now left to declare it; but stood panting and speechless.
“Madre de Dios!” exclaimed her friend in an accent of alarm. “What is it, Ysabel?”
“Madre de Dios! I say too,” gasped the Condesa. “Oh, Luisita! what do you think?”
“What?”
“They’ve taken him – they have him in prison!”
“He lives then – still lives! Blessed be the Virgin!”
Saying which Luisa Valverde crossed her arms over her breast, and with eyes raised devotionally towards heaven, seemed to offer up a mute, but fervent thanksgiving.
“Still lives!” echoed the Condesa, with a look of mingled surprise and perplexity.
“Of course he does; surely you did not think he was dead!”
“Indeed I knew not what to think – so long since I saw or heard of him. Oh, I’m so glad he’s here, even though in a prison; for while there’s life there’s hope.”
By this the Condesa had recovered breath, though not composure of countenance. Its expression alone was changed from the look of trouble to one of blank astonishment. What could her friend mean? Why glad of his being in a prison? For all the while she was thinking of a him.
“Hope!” she ejaculated again as an echo, then remaining silent, and looking dazed-like.
“Yes, Ysabel; I had almost despaired of him. But are you sure they have him here in prison? I was in fear that he had been killed in battle, or died upon the march, somewhere in those great prairies of Texas – ”
“Carramba!” interrupted the young Countess, who, free of speech, was accustomed to interlarding it with her country forms of exclamation. “What’s all this about prairies and Texas? So far as I know, Ruperto was never there in his life.”
“Ruperto!” echoed the other, the joy which had so suddenly lit up her features as suddenly returning to shadow. “I thought you were speaking of Florencio.”
They understood each other now. Long since had their love secrets been mutually confessed; and Luisa Valverde needed no telling who Ruperto was. Independent of what she had lately learned from the Condesa, she knew him to be a gentleman of good family, a soldier of some reputation; but who – as once her own father – had the misfortune to belong to the party now out of power; many of them in exile, or retired upon their estates in the country – for the time taking no part in politics. As for himself, he had not been lately seen in the city of Mexico, though it was said he was still in the country; as rumour had it, hiding away somewhere among the mountains. And rumour went further, even to the defiling of his fair name. There were reports of his having become a robber, and that, under another name, he was now chief of a band of salteadores, whose deeds were oft heard of on the Acapulco Road, where this crosses the mountains near that place of many murders – the Cruzdel Marques.
Nothing of this sinister tale, however, had reached the ears of Don Ignacio’s daughter. Nor till that day – indeed that very hour – had she, more interested in him, heard aught of it. Hence much of the wild excitement under which she was labouring.
“Forgive me, Ysabel!” said her friend, opening her arms, and receiving the Countess in sympathetic embrace; “forgive me for the mistake I have made.”
“Nay, ’tis I who should ask forgiveness,” returned the other, seeing the misapprehension her words had caused, with their distressing effect. “I ought to have spoken plainer. But you know how much my thoughts have been dwelling on dear Ruperto.”
She did know, or should, judging by herself, and how hers had been dwelling on dear Florencio.
“But, Ysabel: you say they made him a prisoner! Who has done that, and why?”
“The soldiers of the State. As to why, you can easily guess. Because he belongs to the party of Liberals. That’s why, and nothing else. But they don’t say so. I’ve something more to tell you. Would you believe it, Luisita, that they accuse him of being a salteador?”
“I can believe him accused of it – some of those in power now are wicked enough for anything – but not guilty. You remember we were acquainted with Don Ruperto, before that sad time when we were compelled to leave the country. I should say he would be the last man to stain his character by becoming a robber.”
“The very last man! Robber indeed! My noble Ruperto the purest of patriots, purer than any in this degenerate land. Ay-de-mi!”
“Where did they take him, and when?”
“Somewhere near San Augustin, and I think, several days ago, though I’ve only just heard of it.”
“Strange that. As you know, I’ve been staying at San Augustin for the last week or more; and there was no word of such a thing there.”
“Not likely there would be; it was all done quietly. Don Ruperto has been living out that way up in the mountains, hiding, if you choose to call it. I know where, but no matter. Too brave to be cautious he had come down to San Augustin. Some one betrayed him, and going back he was waylaid by the soldiers, surrounded, and made prisoner. There must have been a whole host of them, else they’d never have taken him so easily. I’m sure they wouldn’t and couldn’t.”
“And where is he now, Ysabel?”
“In prison, as I’ve told you.”
“But what prison?”
“That’s just what I’m longing to know. All I’ve ye heard is that he’s in a prison under the accusation of being a highwayman. Santissima!” she added, angrily stamping her tiny foot on the tesselated flags. “They who accuse him shall rue it. He shall be revenged on them. I’ll see justice done him myself. Ah! that will I, though it costs me all I’m worth. Only to think – Ruperto a robber! My Ruperto! Valga me Dios!”
By this, the two had mounted up into the mirador – the Señorita Valverde having come down to receive her visitor. And there, the first flurry of excitement over, they talked more tranquilly, or at all events, more intelligibly of the affairs mutually affecting them. In those there was much similarity, indeed, in many respects a parallelism. Yet the feelings with which they regarded them were diametrically opposite. One knew that her lover was in prison, and grieved at it; the other hoped hers might be the same, and would have been glad of it!
A strange dissimilitude of which the reader has the key.
Beyond what she had already said, the Condesa had little more to communicate, and in her turn became the questioner.
“I can understand now, amiga mia, why you spoke of Don Florencio. The Tejano prisoners have arrived, and you are thinking he’s amongst them? That’s so, is it not?”
“Not thinking, but hoping it, Ysabel.”
“Have you taken any steps to ascertain?”
“I have.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve sent a messenger to Tacubaya, where I’m told they’ve been taken.”
“Not all. Some of them have been sent elsewhere. One party, I believe, is shut up in the Acordada.”
“What! in that fearful place? among those horrid wretches – the worst criminals we have! The Tejans are soldiers – prisoners of war. Surely they do not deserve such treatment?”
“Deserve it or not, some of them are receiving it. That grand gentleman, Colonel Carlos Santander – your friend by the way – told me so.”
The mention of Santander’s name, but more a connection with the subject spoken of, produced a visible effect on Luisa Valverde. Her cheek seemed to pale and suddenly flashed red again. Well she remembered, and vividly recalled, the old enmity between him and Don Florencio. Too well, and a circumstance of most sinister recollection as matters stood now. She had thought of it before; was thinking of it all the time, and therefore the words of the Condesa started no new train of reflection. They but intensified the fear she had already felt, for a time holding her speechless.
Not noticing this, and without waiting a rejoinder, the other ran on, still interrogating:
“Whom have you trusted with this delicate mission, may I ask?”
“Only José?”
“Well; José, from what I’ve seen of him, is worthy of the trust. That is so far as honesty is concerned, and possibly cleverness. But, amiga mia, he’s only a humble servitor, and out there in Tacubaya, among the garrison soldiers, or if it be in any of the prisons, he may experience a little difficulty in obtaining the information you seek. Did you give him any money to make matters easy?”
“He has my purse with him, with permission to use it as he may see best.”
“Ah! then you may safely expect his bringing back a good account, or at all events one that will settle the question you wish to have settled. Your purse should be a key to Don Florencio’s prison – if he be inside one anywhere in Mexico.”
“Oh! I hope he is.”
“Wishing your amanti in a prison! That would sound strange enough, if one didn’t understand it.”
“I’d give anything to know him there – all I have to be assured he still lives.”
“Likely enough you’ll soon hear. When do you expect your messenger to be back?”
“At any moment. He’s been gone many hours ago. I was watching for him when you came up – yonder on the Tacubaya Road. I see nothing of him yet, but he may have passed while we’ve been talking.”
“Muy amiga mia! How much our doings this day have been alike. I, too, have despatched a messenger to find out all about Ruperto, and am now awaiting his return. I ran across to tell you of it. And now that we’re together let us stay till we know the worst or the best. God help us both; for, to make use of the phrase I’ve heard among marineros, we’re ‘both in the same boat.’ What is this?” she added, stooping, and taking up the gilded card which had been all the while lying upon the floor. “Oh, indeed! Invitation to an airing in one of the State carriages – with such a pretty compliment appended! How free El Excellentissimo is with his flattery. For myself I detest both him and it. You’ll go, won’t you?”
“I don’t wish it.”
“No matter about wishing; I want you. And so will your father, I’m sure.”
“But why do you want me?”
“Why, so that you may take me with you.”
“I would rather wait till I hear what father says.”
“That’s all I ask, amiga. I shall be contented with his dictum, now feeling sure – ”
She was interrupted by the pattering of feet upon the stone stairway; two pairs of them, which told that two individuals were ascending. The heavy tread proclaimed them to be men. Presently their faces showed over the baluster rail, and another step brought them upon the roof. Both ladies regarding them with looks of eager inquiry, glided down out of the mirador to meet them.
For they were the two messengers that had been despatched separately, though on errands so very similar.
Returning, they had met by the front door, and entered the house together. Each having had orders to deliver his report, and without delay, was now acting in obedience to them.
Two and two they stood upon the azotea, – the men, hat in hand, stood in front of their respective mistresses; not so far apart, but that each mistress might have heard what the servant of the other said; for on their part there was no wish or reason for concealment.
“Señorita,” reported José, “the gentleman you sent me to inquire about is not in Tacubaya.”
Almost a cry came from Luisa Valverde’s lips, as with paled cheek, she said, – “You’ve not heard of him, then?” But the colour quickly returned at the answer, – “I have, Señorita; more, I have seen him.”
“Seen Don Florencio! Where? Speak, quick, José!”
“In the Acordada!”
“In the Acordada!” in still another voice – that of the Condesa speaking in a similar tone, as though it were an echo; for she, too, had just been told that her lover was in the same gaol.
“I saw him in a cell, my lady,” continued the Countess’s man, now taking precedence. “They had him coupled to another prisoner – a Tejano.”
“He was in one of the cells, Señorita,” spoke José, also continuing his report, “chained to a robber.”
Chapter Seventeen
Por Las Zancas
In all cities there is a street favoured by fashion. This in Mexico is the Callé de Plateros (street of the silversmiths), so called because there the workers in precious metals and dealers in bijouterie “most do congregate.”
In this street the jovenes dorados (gilded youth) of modern Tenochtitlan strolled in tight-fitting patent leather boots, canary-coloured kid gloves, cane in hand, and quizzing-glass to the eye. There, too, the señoras and señoritas go shopping bareheaded, with but the shawl thrown over the crown hood-fashion.
When out only for promenade, none of these linger long in the street of the silversmiths. They but pass through it on their way to the Alameda, a sort of half-park, half-garden, devoted to the public use, and tastefully laid out in walks, terraces, and parterres with flowers, and fountains; grand old evergreen trees overshadowing all. For in that summery clime shade, not sun, is the desideratum. Here the jovenes dorados spent part of the afternoons sauntering along the arcaded walks, or seated around the great fountain watching the play of its crystal waters. But with an eye to something besides – the señoritas, who are there, too, flirting the fans with a dexterity which speaks of much practice – speaks of something more. Not every movement made by these rustling segments of circles is intended to create currents of air and cool the heated skin. Many a twist and turn, watched with anxious eyes, conveys intelligence interesting as words never spoken. In Mexico many a love tale is told, passion declared, jealous pang caused or alleviated, by the mute languages of fans and fingers.
Though the Callé de Plateros terminates at the gate of the Alameda, the same line of street is continued half a mile further on, to the fashionable drive of the Pasco Nuevo, sometimes called Pasco de Buccareli, from the Viceroy who ruled New Spain when it was laid out. It is the Rotten Row of Mexico, for it is a ride as well as a drive; and at a certain hour of the afternoon a stream of carriages, with strings of horsemen, may be seen tending towards it, the carriages drawn, some of them by mules, others by the small native horses, and a distinguished few by large English or American animals, there known as frisones. It is the top thing to have a pair of “frisones.”
In the carriages, the señoras and señoritas are seen attired in their richest robes – full evening dress – bare-armed and bareheaded, their hair, usually black, ablaze with jewels or entwined with flowers fresh picked – the sweet-scented suchil, the white star-like jasmine, and crimson grenadine. Alongside ride the cavaliers, in high-peaked, stump-leather saddles, their steeds capering and prancing; each rider, to all appearance, requiring the full strength of his arms to control his mount, while insidiously using his spurs to render the animal uncontrollable. The more it pitches and plunges the better he is pleased, provided the occupants of the carriages have their eyes on him.
Every day in the year – except during the week of Guaresma (Lent), when capricious fashion takes him to the Paseo Viejo, or Lav Vigas, on the opposite side of the city – can this brilliant procession be seen moving along the Callé de Plateros, and its continuation, the Callé de San Francisco.
But in this same thoroughfare one may often witness a spectacle less resplendent, with groups aught but gay. Midway along the street runs a deep drain or sewer, not as in European cities permanently covered up, but loosely flagged over, the flags removable at will. This, the zanca, is more of a stagnant sink than a drainage sewer; since from the city to the outside country there is scarce an inch of fall to carry off the sewage. As a consequence it accumulates in the zancas till they are brimming full, and with a stuff indescribable. Every garbage goes there – all the refuse of household product is shot into them. At periodical intervals they are cleared out, else the city would soon be a-flood in its own filth. It is often very near it, the blue black liquid seen oozing up between the flagstones that bridge over the zancas, filling the air with a stench intolerable. Every recurring revolution make the municipal authorities of Mexico careless about their charge and neglectful of their duties. But when the scouring-out process is going on, the sights are still more offensive, and the smells too. Then the flags are lifted and laid on one side – exposing all the impurity – while the stuff is tossed to the other, there to lie festering for days, or until dry enough to be more easily removed. For all it does not stop the circulation of the carriages. The grand dames seated in them pass on, now and then showing a slight contortion in their pretty noses. But they would not miss their airing in the Paseo were it twenty times worse – that they wouldn’t. To them, as to many of their English sisterhood in Hyde Park, the afternoon drive is everything – to some, as report says, even more than meat or drink; since they deny themselves these for the keeping of the carriage.
It may be imagined that the scouring-out of the zancas is a job for which labourers are not readily obtained.
Even the pelado turns up his nose at it, and the poorest proletarian will only undertake the task when starvation is staring him in the face. For it is not only dirty, but deemed degrading. It is, therefore, one of the travaux-forces which, as a matter of necessity, falls to the lot of the “gaol-bird.” Convicts are the scavengers; criminals sentenced to long periods of imprisonment, of whom there are often enough in the carceles of Mexico to clean out all the sewers in the country. Even by these it is a task looked upon with repugnance, and usually assigned to them as a punishment for prison derelictions. Not that they so much regard the dirt or the smells; it is the toil which offends them – the labour being hard, and often requiring to be done under a hot, broiling sun.
To see them is a spectacle of a rather curious kind, though repulsive. Coupled two and two – for the precaution is taken, and not unfrequently needed – to keep their leg-chains on; up in mud to the middle of their bodies, and above bespattered with it – such mud too! many of them with faces that, even when clean, are aught but nice to look at; their eyes now flashing fierce defiance, now bent down and sullen, they seem either at enmity or out of sorts with all mankind. Some among them, however, make light of it, bandy words with the passers-by, jest, laugh, sing, shout, and swear, which to a sensitive mind but makes the spectacle more sad.
All this understood, it may well be conceived with what anxiety Florence Kearney listened to that snatch of dialogue between Santander and the gaol-governor outside the cell. He did not even then quite comprehend the nature of what was intended for them. But the sharer of his chain did, who soon after made it all known to him, he passing the knowledge on to Cris Rock. So when, on the next morning, the governor again presented himself at the door of their cell, saying:
“Now, gentlemen, get ready to take a little exercise,” – they knew what sort of exercise was meant.
He, however, believing them ignorant of it – for he was not aware they had overheard his out-door speech with Santander, added ironically:
“It’s a special favour I’m going to give you – at the request of Señor Colonel Santander, who, as I’ve seen, takes a friendly interest in some of you. For your health’s sake, he has asked me to give you a turn upon the streets, which I trust you will enjoy and get benefit by.”
Don Pedro was a born joker, and felt conceit in his powers as a satirist. In the present instance his irony was shaftless, being understood.
The dwarf was the only one who deigned rejoinder.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he yelled in his wild unearthly way. “Turn upon the streets! That’s fine for you, Don Pedro. A turn under the streets – that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He had been long enough in the gaol-governor’s charge to know the latter’s name, and was accustomed to address him thus familiarly. The deformed creature was fearless from his very deformity, which in a way gave him protection.
“Vayate Zorillo,” returned the Governor, slightly put out and evidently a little nettled, “you’re too fond of jesting – or trying. I’ll take that out of you, and I mean to give you a lesson in good manners this very day.” Then fixing his eyes upon Rivas, he added: “Señor Don Ruperto, I should be only too happy to let you off from the little excursion your prison companions are about to make and save you the fatigue. But my orders are rigorous. They come from the highest quarter, and I dare not disobey them.”
This was all pure irony, intended but to torment him; at least so the robber seemed to understand it. For, instead of accepting it in a friendly sense, he turned savagely on his tormentor, hissing out:
“I know you daren’t disobey them, dog that you are! Only such as you would be governor of a gaol like this: you, who turned coat and disgraced the sword you wore at Zacatecas. Do your worst, Don Pedro Arias! I defy you.”
“Cascaras! how swelling big you talk, Señor Captain Rivas! Ah! well. I’ll let a little of the wind out of you too, before you bid good-bye to the Acordada. Even the Condesa, grand dame though she is, won’t be able to get you clear of my clutches so easy as you may be thinking. La Garrota is the lady likeliest to do that.”
After thus spitefully delivering himself, he called to some prison warders in waiting in the court outside, and commanded them to come up to him.
“Here,” he directed, “take these two pairs and hand them over to the guard at the gate. You know what for, Dominguez?” The half interrogatory was addressed to a big, hulking fellow, chief of the turnkeys, who looked all Acordada.
“Por cierto, Señor Gobernador,” he rejoined with a significant look, after giving the prison salute to his superior. “I know all about it.”
“See, moreover, that they be kept all day at it; that’s my orders.”
“Sure will I, Señor,” was the compliant rejoinder.
After which the man twitted with turning his coat, turned his back upon the place where he had been so ungraciously received, going off to more agreeable quarters.
“Now, gentlemen!” said the gaoler, stepping up to the door of the cell, “Por las zancas!”
