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The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

Chapter Eighteen
Tyrant and Tool

El Excellentissimo Illustrissimo General Don José Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

Such the twice sesquipedalian name and title of him who at this time wielded the destinies of Mexico. For more than a quarter of a century this man had been the curse of the young Republic – its direst, deadliest bane. For although his rule was not continuous, its evil effects were. Unfortunately, the demoralisation brought about by despotism extends beyond the reign or life of the despot; and Santa Anna had so debased the Mexican people, both socially and politically, as to render them unfitted for almost any form of constitutional government. They had become incapable of distinguishing between the friends of freedom and its foes; and in the intervals of Liberal administration, because the Millennium did not immediately show itself, and make all rich, prosperous, and happy, they leaped to the conclusion that its failure was due to the existing régime, making no account or allowance for the still uncicatrised wounds of the body politic being the work of his wicked predecessor.

This ignorance of political cause and effect is, alas! not alone confined to Mexico. There is enough of it in England, too, as in every other nation. But in the earlier days of the Mexican Republic, the baneful weed flourished with unusual vigour and rankness – to the benefit of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, and the blight of his country. Deposed and banished so many times that their number is not easily remembered, he was ever brought back again – to the wonder of people then, and the puzzle of historians yet. The explanation, however, is simple enough. He reigned through corruption that he had himself been instrumental in creating; through militarism and an abominable Chauvinism– this last as effective an instrument as the oppressor can wield. Divide et impera is a maxim of despotic state-craft, old as despotism itself; “flatter and rule” is a method equally sure, and such Santa Anna practised to its full. He let pass no opportunity of flattering the national vanity, which brought the Mexican nation to shame, with much humiliation – as the French at a later period, and as it must every people that aims at no higher standard of honour than what may be derived from self-adulation.

At the time I am writing of, the chief of the Mexican Republic was aiming at “Imperium” – eagerly straining for it. Its substance he already had, the “Libertas” having been long since eliminated from his system of government, and trodden under foot. But the title he had not acquired yet. He yearned to wear the purple, and be styled “Imperador,” and in order to prepare his subjects for the change, already kept a sort of Imperial court, surrounding it with grand ceremonials. As a matter of course, these partook of a military character, being himself not only political head of the State, but commander-in-chief of its armies. As a consequence, Palacio, his official residence was beset with soldier-guards, officers in gorgeous uniforms loitering about the gates, or going out and in, and in the Plaza Grande at all times exhibiting the spectacle of a veritable Champ de Mars. No one passing through the Mexican metropolis at this period would have supposed it the chief city of a Republic.

On that same day in which Carlos Santander had shown himself at the Acordada, only at an early hour, the would-be Emperor was seated in his apartment of the palace in which he was wont to give audience to ordinary visitors. He had got through the business affairs of the morning, dismissed his Ministers, and was alone, when one of the aides-de-camp in attendance entered with a card, and respectfully saluting him, laid it on the table before him.

“Yes; say I can see him. Tell him to come in,” he directed, soon as reading the name on the card.

In the door, on its second opening, appeared Carlos Santander, in the uniform of a colonel of Hussars, gold bedizened, and laced from collar to cuffs.

“Ah! Señor Don Carlos!” exclaimed the Dictator in a joyous, jocular way, “what’s your affair? Coming to tell me of some fresh conquest you’ve made among the muchachas? From your cheerful countenance I should say it’s that.”

“Excellentissimo!”

“Oh! you needn’t deny, or look so demure about it. Well, you’re a lucky fellow to be the lady killer I’ve heard say you are.”

“Your Excellency, that’s only say-say; I ought rather to call it slander. I’ve no ambition to be thought such a character. Quite the reverse, I assure you.”

“If you could assure me, but you can’t. I’ve had you long enough under my eye to know better. Haven’t I observed your little flirtations with quite half a score of our señoritas, among them a very charming young lady you met in Louisiana, if I mistake not?”

Saying this, he fixed his eyes on Santander’s face in a searching, interrogative way, as though he himself felt more than a common interest in the charming young lady who had been met in Louisiana.

Avoiding his glance, as evading the question, the other rejoined —

“It is very good of your Excellency to take such interest in me, and I’m grateful. But I protest – ”

“Come, come! amigo mio! No protestations. ’Twould only be adding perjury to profligacy. Ha, ha, ha!”

And the grand dignitary leaned back in his chair, laughing. For it was but badinage, and he in no way intended lecturing the staff-colonel on his morality, nor rebuking him for any backslidings. Instead, what came after could but encourage him in such wise, his chief continuing —

“Yes, Señor Don Carlos, I’m aware of your amourettes, for which I’m not the man to be hard upon you. In that regard, I myself get the credit – so rumour says – of living in a glass house, so I cannot safely throw stones. Ha, ha!”

The tone of his laugh, with his self-satisfied look, told of his being aught but angry with rumour for so representing him.

“Well, Excellentissimo,” here put in the subordinate, “it don’t much signify what the world says, so long as one’s conscience is clear.”

“Bravo – bravissimo!” exclaimed the Most Excellent. “Ha, ha, ha!” he continued, in still louder cachinnation. “Carlos Santander turned moralist! And moralising to me! It’s enough to make a horse laugh. Ha, ha, ha!”

The staff-colonel appeared somewhat disconcerted, not knowing to what all this might be tending. However, he ventured to remark —

“I am glad to find your Excellency in such good humour this morning.”

“Ah! that’s because you’ve come to ask some favour from me, I suppose.” Santa Anna had a habit of interlarding his most familiar and friendly discourse with a little satire, sometimes very disagreeable to those he conversed with. “But never mind,” he rattled on, “though I confess some surprise at your hypocrisy, which is all thrown away upon me, amigo! I don’t at all wonder at your success with the señoritas. You’re a handsome fellow, Don Carlos; and if it weren’t for that scar on your cheek – By the way, you never told me how you came by it. You hadn’t it when you were last with us.”

The red flushed into Santander’s face, and up over his forehead to the roots of his hair. He had told no one in Mexico, nor anywhere else, how he came by that ugly thing on his jaw, which beard could not conceal, and which he felt as a brand of Cain.

“It’s a scar of a sword-cut, your Excellency. I got it in a duel.”

“Ah! An honourable wound, then. But where?”

“In New Orleans.”

“Just the place for that sort of thing, as I know, having been there myself.” (Santa Anna had made a tour of the States, on parole, after the battle of San Jacinto, where he was taken prisoner.) “A very den of duellists is Nuevo Orleans; many of them maîtres d’éscrime. But who was your antagonist? I hope you gave him as good as you got.”

“I did, your Excellency; that, and more.”

“You killed him?”

“Not quite. I would have done so, but that my second interposed, and persuaded me to let him off.”

“Well, he hasn’t let you off, anyhow. What was the quarrel about? Carrai! I needn’t ask; the old orthodox cause – a lady, of course?”

“Nay; for once your Excellency is in error. Our desajio originated in something quite different.”

“What thing?”

“An endeavour on my part to do a service to Mexico and its honoured ruler.”

“Oh, indeed! In what way, Señor Colonel?”

“That band of filibusteros, of which, as your Excellency will remember – ”

“Yes – yes,” interrupted Santa Anna impatiently. He evidently knew all about that, and preferred hearing no more of it. “It was one of the filibusteros you fought with, I suppose?”

“Yes, Excellentissimo; the one they chose for their captain.”

“You were angry at his being preferred to yourself, and so called him out? Well, that was cause enough to a man of your mettle. But what became of him afterwards? Was he among those at Mier?”

“He was.”

“Killed there?”

“No, your Excellency; only taken prisoner.”

“Shot at Salado?”

“Neither that, Excellentissimo.”

“Then he must be here?”

“He is here, your Excellency.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kearney – Florence Kearney, un Irlandes.”

A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna’s features, a sort of knowing look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of him on a matter relating to this same man – Florence Kearney; in short, to obtain clemency for the young Irishman – full pardon, if possible. But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for his application – as also who it originated from – Santa Anna had conceived suspicions.

Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply inquiring —

“Is the Irlandes at Tacubaya?”

“No, your Excellency; he’s in the Acordada.”

“Since you had the disposal of the Tejano prisoners, I can understand that,” returned the Dictator, with a significant shrug. “It’s about him, then, you’re here, I suppose. Well, what do you want?”

“Your authority, Excellentissimo, to punish him as he deserves.”

“For making that tracing on your cheek, eh? You repent not having punished him more at the time when you yourself had the power? Isn’t it so, Señor Colonel?”

Santander’s face reddened, as he made reply —

“Not altogether, your Excellency. There’s something besides, for which he deserves to be treated differently from the others.”

Santa Anna could have given a close guess at what the exceptional something was. To his subtle perception a little love drama was gradually being disclosed; but he kept his thoughts to himself, with his eyes still searchingly fixed on Santander’s face.

“This Kearney,” continued the latter, “though an Irishman, is one of Mexico’s bitterest enemies, and especially bitter against your Excellency. In a speech he made to the filibusteros, he called you a usurper, tyrant, traitor to liberty and your country – ay, even coward. Pardon me for repeating the vile epithets he made use of.”

Santa Anna’s eyes now scintillated with a lurid sinister light, as if filled with fire, ready to blaze out. In the American newspapers he had often seen his name coupled with such opprobrious phrases, but never without feeling savagely wrathful. And not the less that his own innate consciousness told him it was all as said.

“Chingara!” he hissed out, for he was not above using this vulgar exclamation. “If it is true what you say, Don Carlos, as I presume it is, you can do as you like with this dog of an Irlandes! have him shot, or have him despatched by La Garrota, whichever seems best to you. But no – stay! That won’t do yet. There’s a question about these Tejanos with the United States Minister; and as this Kearney is an Irishman, and so a British subject, the representative of that country may make trouble too. So till all this is settled, the Irlandes mustn’t be either shot or garrotted. Instead, let him be treated tenderly. You comprehend?”

The staff-colonel did comprehend; the emphasis on the “tenderly” made it impossible for him to mistake the Dictator’s meaning, which was just as he desired it. As he passed out of the presence, and from the room, his countenance was lit up, or rather darkened, by an expression of fiendish triumph. He now had it in his power to humiliate them who had so humbled him.

“Quite a little comedy!” soliloquised Santa Anna, as the door closed on his subordinate, “in which, before it’s played out, I may myself take a part. She’s a charming creature, this Señorita Valverde. But, ah! nothing to the Condesa. That woman – witch, devil, or whatever I may call her – bids fair to do what woman never did – make a fool of Lopez de Santa Anna.”

Chapter Nineteen
A Wooden-Legged Lothario

For some time the Dictator remained in his seat lighting cigarrito after cigarrito, and puffing away at them furiously. The look of light frivolity had forsaken his face, which was now overcast with gloom.

At this time, as said, he wielded supreme unlimited power over the Mexican people – even to life and death. For although he might not recklessly or openly decree this, he could bring it about secretly – by means which, if rumour spoke true, he had more than once made use of. Indeed, there stood against his name more than one well-confirmed record of assassination.

Thought of this may have had something to do with the cloud that had come over his features; though not for any qualms of conscience for the murders he may have committed or hired others to commit. More likely a fear that he himself might some day meet a similar fate; like all despots he dreaded the steel of the assassin. By his corrupt administration, he had encouraged bravoism till it had become a dangerous element in the social life of his country – almost an institution – and it was but natural he should fear the bravo’s blade turned against himself.

Another apprehension may at this time have been troubling him. Although to all appearance secure in the dictatorial chair, with a likelihood of his soon converting it into a real throne, he had his misgivings about this security. By imprisonments, executions, banishments, and confiscations, he had done all in his power to annihilate the Liberal party. But though crushed and feeble now, its strength was but in abeyance, its spirit still lived, and might again successfully assert itself. No man knew this better than he himself; and no better teacher could he have had than his own life’s history, with its alternating chapters of triumph and defeat. Even then there was report of a pronunciamento in one of the northern cities of the Republic – the State, by a polite euphemism, being still so designated. Only a faint “gritto” it was, but with a tone that resembled the rumbling of distant thunder, which might yet be heard louder and nearer.

Little, however, of matters either revolutionary or political was he thinking now. The subject uppermost in his mind was that latent on his lips – woman. Not in a general way, but with thoughts specially bent upon one of them, or both, with whose names he had just been making free. As his soliloquy told, a certain “Condesa” had first place in his reflections, she being no other than the Condesa Almonté. In his wicked way he had made love to this young lady, as to many others; but, unlike as with many others, he had met repulse. Firm, though without indignation, his advances not yet having gone so far, nor been so bold, as to call for this. He had only commenced skirmishing with her; a preliminary stroke of his tactics being that invitation to ride in the State carriage extended to Doña Luisita Valverde, while withheld from the Countess – an astute manoeuvre on his part, and, as he supposed, likely to serve him. In short, the old sinner was playing the old game of “piques.” Nor did he think himself so ancient as to despair of winning at it. In such contests he had too often come off victorious, and success might attend upon him still. Vain was he of his personal appearance, and in his earlier days not without some show of reason. In his youth Santa Anna would claim to be called, if not handsome, a fairly good-looking man. Though a native Mexican, a Vera-cruzano, he was of pure Spanish race and good blood – the boasted sangre-azul. His features were well formed, oval, and slightly aquiline, his complexion dark, yet clear, his hair and moustaches black, lustrous, and profuse. But for a sinister cast in his eyes, not always observable, his countenance would have been pleasing enough. As it was he prided himself upon it even now that he was well up in years, and his hair becoming silvered. As for the moustaches, black pomatum kept them to their original colour.

One thing soured him, even more than advancing age – his wooden leg. ’Tis said he could never contemplate that without an expression of pain coming over his features, as though there was gout in the leg itself giving him a twinge. And many the time – nay, hundreds of times – did he curse Prince de Joinville. For it was in defending Vera Cruz against the French, commanded by the latter, he had received the wound, which rendered amputation of the limb necessary. In a way he ought to have blessed the Prince, and been grateful for the losing of it rather than otherwise. Afterwards the mishap stood him in good stead; at election times when he was candidate for the Chief Magistracy of the State. Then he was proud to parade the artificial limb; and did so to some purpose. It was, indeed, an important element in his popularity, and more than once proved an effective aid to his reinstatement. With a grim look, however, he regarded it now. For though it had helped him politically, he was not thinking of politics, and in what he was thinking about he knew it an obstruction. A woman to love a man with a wooden leg! And such a woman as Ysabel Almonté! Not that he put it to himself in that way; far from it. He had still too good an opinion, if not of his personal appearance, at least of his powers otherwise, and he even then felt confident of success. For he had just succeeded in removing another obstacle which seemed likely to be more in his way than the wooden leg. He had but late come to know of it; but as soon as knowing, had taken measures to avert the danger dreaded – by causing the imprisonment of a man. For it was a man he feared, or suspected, as his competitor for the affections of the Condesa. It had cost him no small trouble to effect this individual’s arrest, or rather capture. He was one of the proscribed, and in hiding; though heard of now and then as being at the head of a band of salteadore– believed to have turned highwayman.

But he had been taken at length, and was at that moment in the gaol of the Acordada; which Santa Anna well knew, having himself ordered his incarceration there, and given other instructions regarding him to the gaol-governor, who was one of his creatures.

After sitting for some time, as he stretched out his hand, and held the end of his paper cigar to the red coals burning in a brazero on the table before him, the frown upon his features changed to a demoniac smile. Possibly from the knowledge that this man was now in his power. Sure was he of this; but what would he not have given to be as sure of her being so too!

Whether his reflections were sweet or bitter, or which predominated, he was not permitted longer to indulge in them. The door again opening – after a tap asking permission to enter – showed the same aide-de-camp. And on a similar errand as before, differing only in that now he placed two cards on the table instead of one; the cards themselves being somewhat dissimilar to that he had already brought in.

And with altogether a different air did Santa Anna take them up for examination. He was enough interested at seeing by their size and shape that those now desiring an audience of him were ladies. But on reading the names, his interest rose to agitation, such as the aide-de-camp never before had seen him exhibit, and which so much astonished the young officer that he stood staring wonderingly, if not rudely, at the grand dignitary, his chief. His behaviour, however, was not noticed, the Dictator’s eyes being all upon the cards. Only for an instant though. If he gave ready reception to his late visitor, still readier did he seem desirous of according it to those now seeking speech with him.

“Conduct the ladies in,” was his almost instantaneous command, as quickly retracted. For soon as spoken he countermanded it; seemingly from some afterthought which, as a codicil, had suddenly occurred to him. Then followed a chapter of instructions to the aide-de-camp, confidential, and to the effect that the ladies were not to be immediately introduced. He was to keep them in conversation in the ante-chamber outside, till he should hear the bell.

Judging by his looks as he went out the young subaltern was more than satisfied with the delay thus enjoined upon him. It was aught but a disagreeable duty; for, whether acquainted with the ladies who were in waiting, or not, he must have seen that both were bewitchingly beautiful – one being Luisa Valverde, the other Ysabel Almonté.