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The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

Chapter Twenty Three
The Procession

Disagreeable as was their job, some of the forzados made light of it, bandying jests with the street passengers, who did not find it safe to go too near them. A scoopful of the inky liquid could be flung so as to spoil the polish on boots, or sent its splashes over apparel still higher. Even the vigilance of the sentries could not prevent this, or rather they cared not to exercise it. The victims of such practical jokes were usually either of the class felado, or the yet more humble aboriginals, accustomed to be put upon by the soldiers themselves, who rather relished the fun.

But only the more abandoned of the gaol-birds behaved in this way, many of them seeming to feel the degradation more than aught else. For among them, as we know, were men who should not have been there. Some may have seen friends passing by, who gave them looks of sympathy or pity, and possibly more than one knew himself under eyes whose expression told of a feeling stronger than either of these – love itself. Indeed this last, or something akin to it, seemed the rule rather than the exception. In Mexico, he must be a deeply disgraced criminal whose sweetheart would be ashamed of him; and every now and then, a brown-skinned “muchacha” might be seen crossing to where the scavengers were at work, and, with a muttered word or two, passing something into a hand eagerly outstretched to receive it. The sentries permitted this, after examining the commodity so tendered, and seeing it a safe thing to be entrusted to the receiver. These gifts of friendship, or gages d’amour, were usually eatables from the nearest cook-shop; their donors well knowing that the fare of the Acordada was neither plentiful nor sumptuous.

But beyond these interested ones, few of the pedestrians stopped or even looked at the chain-gang. To most, if not all, it was an ordinary spectacle, and attracted no more attention than would a crossing-sweeper on a London street. Not as much as the latter, as he is often an Oriental. On that particular day, however, the party of scavengers presented a novelty, in having the two Tejanos in it; with a yet greater one in the odd juxtaposition of Cris Rock and his diminutive “mate.” In Mexico, a man over six feet in height is a rarity, and as Cris exceeded this by six inches, a rarer sight still was he. The colossus coupled to the dwarf, as Gulliver to Lilliputian – a crooked Lilliputian at that – no wonder that a knot of curious gazers collected around them, many as they approached the grotesque spectacle uttering ejaculations of surprise.

“Ay Dios!” exclaimed one. “Gigante y enano!” (a giant and a dwarf) – “and chained together! Who ever saw the like?”

Such remarks were continually passing among the spectators, who laughed as they listened to them. And though the Texan could not tell what they said, their laughter “riled” him. He supposed it a slur upon his extraordinary stature, of which he was himself no little proud, while they seemed to regard it sarcastically. Could they have had translated to them the rejoinders that now and then came from his lips, like the rumbling of thunder, they would have felt their sarcasm fully paid back, with some change over. As a specimen: —

“Devil darn ye, for a set of yaller-jawed pigmies! Ef I hed about a millyun o’ ye out in the open purairu, I’d gie you somethin’ to larf at. Dod-rot me! ef I don’t b’lieve a pack o’ coycoats ked chase as many o’ ye as they’d count themselves; and arter runnin’ ye down ’ud scorn to put tooth into yur stinkin’ carcasses!”

Fortunately for him, the “yaller-jawed pigmies” understood not a word of all this; else, notwithstanding his superior size and strength, he might have had rough handling from them. Without that, he was badly plagued by their behaviour, as a bull fretted with flies; which may have had something to do with his readiness to go down into the drain. There, up to his elbows, he was less conspicuous, and so less an object of curiosity.

It had got to be noon, with the sun at fire heat; but for all the forzados were kept on at work. No rest for them until the task should be completed, and they taken back to their prison quarters at a late hour of the afternoon. The cruel gaoler told them so in a jeering way. He seemed to take a pleasure in making things disagreeable to them, as he strutted to and fro along their line, flourishing his quirt, and giving grand exhibition of his “brief authority.”

A little after midday, however, there came a change in their favour, brought by unlooked-for circumstances. Groups of people began to gather in the Callé de Plateros, swarming into it from side streets, and taking stand upon the foot-walk. Soon they lined it all along as far as the eye could reach. Not pelados, but most of them belonging to a class respectable, attired in their holiday clothes, as on a dia de fiesta. Something of this it was, as the scavengers were presently told, though some of them may have had word of it before without feeling any concern about it. Two, however, whom it did concern – though little dreamt they of its doing so – were only made aware of what the crowd was collecting for, when it began to thicken. These were Kearney and Rivas, who, knowing the language of the country, could make out from what was being said around them that there was to be a funcion. The foundation-stone of a new church was to be laid in the suburb of San Cosmé the chief magistrate of the State himself to lay it – with all ceremony and a silver trowel. The procession, formed in the Plaza Grande, would, of course, pass through the Callé de Plateros; hence the throng of the people in that street.

Funcions and fiestas are of such frequent occurrence in the Mexican metropolis – as indeed everywhere else in that land of the far niente– that this, an ordinary one and not much announced, excited no particular interest, save in the suburb of San Cosmé itself – a quarter where a church might be much needed, being a very den of disreputables. Still, a large number of people had put on their best apparel, and sallied forth to witness the procession.

This did not delay long in showing itself. It came heralded by the stirring notes of a trumpet, then the booming of the big drum in a band of music – military. A troop of cavalry – Lancers – formed the advance, to clear the way for what was to follow; this being a couple of carriages, in which were seated the Bishop of Mexico and his ecclesiastical staff, all in grand, gaudy raiments; on such an occasion the Church having precedence, and the post of honour.

Behind came the gilded coach of the Dictator – flanked on each side by guards in gorgeous uniform – himself in it. Not alone, but with one seated by his side, whose presence there caused Florence Kearney surprise, great as he ever experienced in his life. Despite the coat of diplomatic cut and its glittering insignia, he easily recognised his ci-devant teacher of the Spanish tongue – Don Ignacio Valverde.

But great as was his astonishment, he was left no time to indulge in it, or speculate how his old “crammer” came to be there. For close behind the Dictator’s carriage followed another, holding one who had yet more interest for him than Don Ignacio – Don Ignacio’s daughter!

Chapter Twenty Four
Significant Glances

Yes; the lady in the carriage was Luisa Valverde. Too surely she, thought Florence Kearney; for seeing her there was painful to him – a shock – as one who sees the woman he loves in the jaws of some great danger. And so he believed her to be, as a host of unpleasant memories came crowding into his mind like hideous spectres. No imagination either, but a danger real and present before his eyes at that moment, in the person of a man, riding by the side of the carriage in which she sat – Carlos Santander. He it was, in a gold-laced uniform, with a smile of proud satisfaction on his face. What a contrast to the craven, crestfallen wretch who, under a coating of dull green ooze, crawled out of the ditch at Pontchartrain! And a still greater contrast in the circumstances of the two men – fortunes, positions, apparel, everything reversed.

The Hussar colonel appeared not to be one of the regular escorts attending upon the Dictator, but detached, and free to choose his place in the procession. Well had he chosen it, any one would say; for there was a second lady in the carriage, young and beautiful, too; as may be guessed – the Condesa Almonté. But he seemed to have no eyes for her, nor words; his looks and speech all bestowed upon Luisa Valverde. For he was smilingly conversing with her, and she appeared to listen attentively, returning his smiles!

A spectacle to Kearney not only saddening, but maddening. Through his soul, dark as winter now, swept dire bitter misgivings.

“Are they married? No. ’Tis not the behaviour of man and wife. Soon will be – engaged, no doubt. Yes; he has won her heart, after all; likely had it then, when I believed it mine. Such deception? O God!”

These unspoken questions and conjectures passed through his mind rapidly as thought itself.

They were interrupted by his seeing the ladies – the carriage being now nearly abreast – turn their faces towards him in an odd interrogative way. The movement, abrupt and sudden, seemed prompted; and so had it been by him on horseback. Florence Kearney saw him nod in that direction, his lips moving, but the distance was too great to hear what he said.

“Mira! Los Tejanos!” were Santander’s words, indicating the group of which they formed part. “One of them is, if I mistake not, an old acquaintance of yours, Don Luisa? And how strange!” he added, feigning surprise. “Chained to a criminal – no, let me not call him that – an individual in whom the Condesa Almonté takes an interest, if rumour’s to be believed. Is it so, Condesa?”

Neither of them made response, for neither was now listening to him. Each had her eyes upon that which engrossed all her attention, one fixedly gazing at Florence Kearney, the other at Ruperto Rivas. For, by the grace, or rather negligence, of their guards, the latter was now up on the pavement.

What an interchange of glances between the pairs thus brought face to face! What a variety of expression upon their features! For varied and strong were their emotions at this moment – surprise, sadness, sympathy, indignation, and, amidst all, conspicuous above all, looks of unchanged, ever-confiding love!

He who had brought about this odd interview – for it had been pre-arranged – was riding on the left and near side of the carriage, the sewer being on the right and off; which, of course, placed him behind the backs of the ladies as they now were, and hindered his observing their faces. Could he have seen them just then, he might have doubted the success of his scheme, and certainly could not have accounted it a triumph. For the eyes, late turned smilingly upon himself, were now regarding Florence Kearney with earnest, sympathetic gaze.

And the man, to whom this was given, was trying his best to interpret it. He saw that she turned pale as her eyes first fell upon him. That might be but surprise seeing him there, with the consciousness of her own guilt. Or was it pity? If so, he would have spurned it. All the tortures the Acordada could inflict upon him, all the toil and degradation would be easier to bear than that. But no. It could not be pity alone. The sudden start and paling cheek; the look of interest in those eyes, beautiful as ever, and so well remembered; a flash in them that recalled the old time when he believed her heart his; all spoke of something more than mere sympathy with his misfortune. Before the carriage, moving slowly on, had carried her out of his sight, the jealous fancies so late harrowing his soul, seemed to be passing away, as though an angel was whispering in his ear, “She loves you – still loves you!”

Needless to say, he was too much occupied in reading the expression on Luisa Valverde’s face to give even a look to the other beautiful one beside it. And alike was he forgetful of the man who stood beside himself. Yet, between these two neglected individuals, glances were being exchanged also in earnest, and watchful glances, which told of their being as much interested in one another as he in Luisa Valverde, or she in him. Better comprehending one another, too, as a physiognomist could have told, observing the play of their features. The first expression on those of the Condesa was surprise, quick changing to indignation, this as suddenly disappearing or becoming subdued, restrained by a thought, or possibly a sign, given by her “dear, noble Ruperto.” As evinced by the fond, yet proud, sparkle of her eyes, he was no less dear now, no less noble in that degrading garb, than when she knew him in a gold-laced uniform, splendid as that worn by Santander, and he, in her eyes, ten times more worthy of wearing it. If he had turned bandit, she did not believe it; though, believing it, she would have loved him all the same. Nor in this would she have so much differed from the rest of her sex. Blameable as it may be, love – even that of a lady – has but little to do with the moralities; and of a Mexican lady perhaps less than any other. Certain, that Ruperto Rivas, robber or no, in that crossing of glances with the Condesa Almonté showed no sign of jealousy; instead, full confidence of being beloved by her.

Though the account of this little episode seems long, the actual occurrence – gestures, thoughts, looks, changes of facial expression – was all comprised within a few seconds of time, scarce so much as a minute.

Then the carriage containing the two ladies passed on out of sight, other carriages following, with other ladies in them; more cavalry – Lancers, Hussars, and heavy Dragoons – more music, mingling with the shouts and cheers of the fickle populace, as they swarmed along the foot-walk, every now and then vociferating —

“Viva, Santa Anna el Illustrissimo! Viva, el Salvador de la Patria!”

Chapter Twenty Five
A Mysterious Missive

“O! Ysabel! To think of it! In the chain-gang – in the sewers! Madre de Dios!”

Thus passionately exclaimed Luisa Valverde, half addressing herself to the Condesa Almonté in her father’s house again, to which they had just returned from the ceremony of the procession. They were in the sala, seated upon the chair, into which they flung themselves, as if overcome with fatigue.

And weariness it was, but not of the body. Their souls were a-wearied through being unable to give utterance to the thoughts and passions that for hours had been convulsing them. Ever since passing the chain-gang they had been forced to keep up faces, seem as they felt not, smile when they could have wept. This the Condesa had counselled for reasons already hinted at; and now back home, with no one to see or hear, they were giving way to the wild tumult of emotion so long pent up.

For a time the Condesa made no rejoinder, herself as much affected as her friend. Both sat in despairing attitudes, heads drooped, and hands clasping them as though they ached; bosoms rising and falling in laboured undulation, the hearts within them painfully pulsing. All so unlike themselves, in such discordance with their great beauty, and the rich robes they wore. Looking at two such women, one could ill believe it possible for them to be otherwise than happy; yet, at that moment, both were miserable as misery itself.

“Ah, yes!” sighed the Countess, at length, and like as if awakening from some weird dream, its impress still upon her face. “To think of it; and fearful it is to think of. I understand things better now. My Ruperto is indeed in danger – more than I this morning believed. And your Florencio too. I could read his death in the eyes of Don Carlos Santander; and one told me the Tejanos are all to be shot!”

“O Ysabel, say not that! If they kill him, they may kill me! The man I love! Santa Guadalupe – Blessed Virgin! Save, oh, save him from such a fate!”

Against the wall was a picture of this, the patroness Saint of Mexico – for there is one in every Mexican house – and, while speaking, the young girl had risen from her chair, glided across the room, and fallen upon her knees before it. In this attitude she remained for some moments, her hands crossed over her breast, her lips moving as though she muttered a prayer.

Altogether differently acted the Condesa. She was not of the devotional sort, where it seemed unlikely to be of practical service. Good Catholic enough, and observant of all the ceremonies, but no believer in miracles; and therefore distrustful of what Santa Guadalupe, or any other saint, could do for them. She had more belief in the Cromwellian doctrine of keeping the powder dry; and that she meant to practise it, not with powder, but with her purse, was soon made evident by her speech.

“It’s no use kneeling there,” she said, starting to her feet, and again showing spirit. “Let us pray in our hearts. I’ve been doing that already, and I’m sure so have you. Something else should be done now – another effort made – this time with money; no matter how much it takes. Yes, Luisa, we must act.”

“I want to act,” rejoined the other, as she forsook the kneeling posture, with an abruptness not common to devotees; “only tell me how. Can you?”

For some seconds the Condesa let the question remain unanswered. Once more her hand had gone up to her head, the jewelled fingers met and clasped upon her brow – this time to quicken reflection; some scheme, already half conceived, needing further elaboration.

Whatever the plan, it was soon worked out complete, as evinced by her words following.

“Amiga mia; is there in your service one we can implicitly trust?”

“José. You know we can trust him.”

“True. But he won’t do for the first step to be taken: which is, indeed, only to deliver a letter. But it needs being adroitly done, and a woman will be the better for that. Besides, José will be wanted for something else, at the same time. There are two or three of my own female following could be relied on, so far as fidelity is concerned; but, unluckily, they’re all known on the Callé de Plateros, as well as the street itself; and there isn’t any of them particularly intelligent or dexterous. What we stand in need of now is one possessed of both these qualities – either woman or girl.”

“Would Pepita do?”

“You mean the little mestizo, who was with you at New Orleans?”

“The same. She’s all that; and, besides, devoted to me.”

Don Ignacio’s daughter had reason to know this, from experience in the Casa de Calvo, in which Pepita had played a part.

“She’ll do,” said the Countess; “the very individual, from what I’ve seen of her. Get me pen, ink, and paper – quick! At the same time summon Pepita!”

The Countess was now all action; and, responding to her roused energies, the other rushed towards the bell-pull, and gave it two or three vigorous jerks.

As it chanced, there were writing materials in the room; and, while waiting for the bell to be answered, the Countess made use of them, hastily scribbling some words on a sheet of paper, which she folded without putting into an envelope; instead, twisted it between her finger, as if dissatisfied with what she had written, and designed cancelling it. Far from this her intention, as was soon made manifest.

“Muchacha!” she said to Pepita, who, being lady’s maid, had answered the bell herself. “Your mistress tells me you can be trusted on a matter which calls not only for confidence, but cleverness. Is that so?”

“I can’t promise the cleverness, your ladyship; but for the other, I think the Doña Luisa knows she can rely on me.”

“You’d be good at delivering a letter, without letting all the world into the secret, I suppose?”

“I’ll do my best, your ladyship, if Duena command it.”

“Yes, I wish it, Pepita,” interposed Doña Luisa, herself the “Duena.”

“Muy bien Señorita. Into whose hands is it to be put?”

Though speaking direct to her own mistress, the interrogatory was more meant for the Condesa, between whose fingers and thumb she saw the thing she was to take charge of.

The answer to her query called for some consideration. The note was for Ruperto Rivas; but the girl knew him not; so how could she give it him?

Here was a difficulty not before thought of, for a time perplexing both the ladies. In this case Doña Luisa was the first to see a way out of it, saying in a whisper: —

“Let her give it to Florencio; she knows him, and he can – ”

“Carramba!” exclaimed the Countess interrupting. “How wonderfully wise you are, amiga! The very thing! And it never occurred to me! No, you tell her what to do.”

“This, Pepita,” said her mistress, taking the crumpled sheet from the Condesa, and passing it to her maid, “this is to be delivered to a gentleman you’ve seen, and should know.”

“Where have I seen him, señorita?”

“In New Orleans.”

“Do you mean Don Carlos, my lady?”

“No;” the abrupt negative accompanied with a dissatisfied look.

“Who then, señorita?”

“Don Florencio.”

“Ay Dios! Is he here? I did not know it. But where am I to find him?”

No need to repeat the dialogue as continued. Suffice it that, before leaving the room, Pepita received full instructions where to find Don Florencio, and when found what she was to do and say to him.

So far all this was easy enough. More difficult the commission to be entrusted to José – more dangerous too. But it was made known to him in less than twenty minutes after; receiving his ready assent to its execution – though it should cost him his life, as he said. One motive for his agreeing to undergo the danger was devotion to his young mistress; another to stand well with Pepita, who had a power over him, and as he knew had entered upon her part with an ardent alacrity. But there was a third stimulus to keep up his courage, should it feel like failing – this having to do with the Condesa. Drawing out her grand gold watch – good value for a hundred dollores, and holding it up before his eyes, she said:

“That’s your reward, José; that or its worth in money.”

No need saying more. For the commission he was to execute much preparation was to be made, in all haste too. And in all haste he set to making it – determined to win the watch.