Story 1, Chapter XI
A Mexican Medico
In front of the tent – as I had whispered to her – I lay upon the ground, enfolded in my cloak. It was not the cold that kept me from sleeping, but the proximity – I might almost say the presence of that fair creature, since only a sheet of thin canvas was between us.
I will not confess my thoughts; they are unworthy of being recorded. Even my dreams – for I had short intervals of sleep, during which I dreamt – all tended to one theme: – the enjoyment of the beautiful Jarocha.
I listened long, with my ear keenly bent to catch the slightest sound. I felt no interest in the noises without. The night was now hastening towards day, and the sufferers who had been making it hideous seemed to have become wearied with wailing, for their voices were no longer heard.
Alone echoed upon the air the mocking strains of the czentzontle, perched upon the summit of an acacia, and answering a friend, perhaps an enemy, far off on the opposite side of the barranca.
The bird music fell unheeded on my ear, as did all other sounds proceeding from without. Even the firing of a gun would scarcely have distracted my attention from listening for any murmur that might reach me from the interior of the tent.
I could hear the heavy breathing of the invalid; nothing more.
Once he coughed, and became restless upon his couch. Then I heard a sweet silvery voice speaking in accents of affectionate inquiry, and ending in the pronunciation of some soothing words.
From other sounds I could tell that his nurse had arisen, and was ministering to the invalid.
By the silence, soon restored, I could perceive that she had completed her task, and had returned to her recumbent position.
She appeared to have no thoughts of him who was keeping guard without; – not as her guardian angel, but rather demon, who would not have hesitated to destroy that innocence which enabled her to sleep!
Just in proportion as the time passed, so increased my respect for Lola Vergara, and my contempt for myself.
The lovelight I had observed in her eyes was but her natural look – the simple expression of her wondrous beauty. It had no signification – at least none that was evil – and in mistaking it for the glance of a guilty passion I had erred – deeply wronging her.
Soothed by this more honourable reflection, I at length fell asleep, just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to steal over the spray of the chapparal.
I could not have been very long unconscious, for the beams of the sun had scarcely attained their full brilliancy, when I was again awakened – this time, not by the conflict of passion within, but by the voices of men without. The challenge of a sentry had first struck upon my ear, – quickly followed by a parley with some one who had approached the tent.
In the scarcely intelligible dialogue that ensued, I could tell that the man challenged was a Mexican, who, in broken English, was endeavouring to satisfy the demands of the sentry.
The dialogue ran thus: —
“Who goes there?”
“Amigos! friends!” was the response.
“’Dvance, and gie the countersign!”
“Señor centinela! we are medicos– surgeon, you call – of the ejercito – armee Mejicano.”
“Ye’re Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye’re about then. What d’ye want hyar?”
“We are medicos – doctor —entiende usted?”
“Doctors, ye say. Humph! if that’s what ye be, ye mout be o’ some use hyar, I reckon. There’s a good wheen o’ yer sodgers gone under for want o’ docturin. F’r all that I can’t let you pass ’ithout the countersign; leastwise till I’ve called the corporal o’ the guard.”
The group, who stood in front of the faithful sentinel awaiting permission to pass, was full under my eyes, as I turned my face towards it. The persons comprising it numbered about a score of men, only one of whom was in uniform. This individual wore a frock-coat of blue broadcloth, very long in the skirt, with gilt buttons over the breast, crimson edging, and a cord trimming of gold lace. His pantaloons were of similar colour to the coat – in fact, of the same kind of cloth. Instead of a military cap or shako he wore a black glazé hat, with broad brim; while several minor articles of dress and equipment proclaimed a costume half military, half civilian – such a style as might be seen in any army during a campaign, but more especially in that of Mexico.
The other personages of the party were variously clad – some in half military costumes, but most of them in plain clothes, – if any garments worn in Mexico can be so qualified. Several of them, two-and-two, bore stretchers between them; while others carried surgical instruments, lint, and labelled phials – insignia that declared their calling. They were the hospital staff, the assistentes of the young officer who preceded them, and who was evidently a surgeon belonging to the Mexican army.
It was he who had accosted the sentry.
The appearance of this party on the field of battle needed no explanation. No more did there need to be any ceremony as to their introduction.
On seeing them, I shouted to the sentry to let them pass without waiting for the arrival of that important functionary – the “corporal of the guard.”
As I arose to my feet, I was confronted by the Mexican medico, to whose indifferent English I had been for some time listening.
“Señor Capitan,” he said, after saluting me with a polite wave of the hand, “I have been told that I may address you in my own language. In it, and in the name of humanity, let me thank you for the kindness you have shown to our wounded soldiers. In you, sir, we no longer recognise an enemy.”
“The trifling assistance I have rendered is scarcely deserving of thanks. I fear that to some of the poor fellows who were its recipients it has been of no avail. More than one of them must have succumbed during the night.”
“That reminds me, Señor Capitan, that I should not lose time. I carry, as you perceive, a safeguard from the American Commander-in-chief.”
While speaking, he held out the document referred to, in order that I might examine it.
“It is not necessary,” I said; “you are of the medical staff; your errand is your passport.”
“Enough, Señor Capitan. I shall proceed to the accomplishment of my duty. In the name of humanity and Mexico, once more I thank you!”
Saying this, he walked off with his followers towards that portion of the field, where most of his wounded countrymen had miserably passed the night.
In the style and personal appearance of this Mexican there was a gracefulness peculiarly impressive. He was a man of not less than fifty years of age, of dark complexion under snow-white hair, and with features so finely outlined as to appear almost feminine. A pair of large, liquid eyes, a voice soft and musical, small delicate hands, and a graceful modesty of demeanour, bespoke him a person of refinement – in short, a gentleman.
The fact of his speaking English, though not very fluently, being an accomplishment rare among his countrymen, betokened intellectual culture, perhaps foreign travel – an idea strengthened by his general manner and bearing. There was something in his looks, moreover, that led me to think he must be clever in his calling.
I bethought me of the invalid inside the tent. Calros might stand in need of his skill.
I was about to summon him back, when the young girl, hurrying out, anticipated my intention. She had overheard the dialogue between the new-comer and myself, and, thinking only of her brother, had rushed forth to claim the services of the surgeon.
“Oh, Señor,” she cried, making the appeal to myself, “will you call him back to – to see Calros?”
“I was about to do so,” I replied. “He is coming!”
I had not even the merit of summoning the medics. On hearing her voice he had stopped and turned round, his attendants imitating his example. The eyes of all were concentrated on the Jarocha.
“Señorita,” said the surgeon, stepping towards the tent and modestly raising his sombrero as he spoke, “so fair a flower is not often found growing upon the ensanguined field of battle. If I have overheard you aright, it is your wish I should see some one who is wounded – some one dear to you, no doubt?”
“My brother, sir.”
“Ah! your brother,” said the Mexican, regarding the girl with a look that betokened a degree of surprise. “Where may I find him?”
“In the tent, señor. Calros, dear Calros! there is a medico, a real surgeon, coming to see you.”
And as the girl gave utterance to the words she stepped quickly inside the marquee, followed by the surgeon himself.
Story 1, Chapter XII
A Side Conversation
I was about to enter after them, when some words spoken by one of the attendants, who had drawn nearer to the tent, arrested my steps, causing me to remain outside.
“It’s Lola Vergara,” said the speaker; “that’s who it is. Any one who has had the good fortune to see that muchacha once, won’t be likely to forget her face, and won’t object to look at it a second time.”
“You’re right in what you say, Anton Chico. I know one who, instead of disliking to look at her beautiful countenance, would give an onza for a single glance at it. Carrambo! that he would.”
“Who – who is he?” asked several of the party.
“That big captain of guerilleros– Rayas, his name. I know he’d like to see her.”
“Why, her brother belonged to his cuadrilla; and the girl was with him in the camp. I saw her myself, not three days ago, down by Puente National.”
“That’s quite true!” assented the speaker who had endorsed the declaration of Anton Chico.
“She was with the army for some days, along with the other women that followed Rayas’s troop. But then all at once she was missed, and nobody knew where she went to. Capitan Rayas didn’t, I know; or why should he have offered an onza to any one who would tell him?”
“He made that offer?”
“Ver dad! I heard him.”
“To whom?”
“To that ugly zambo you’ve seen skulking about the camp – who belongs to nobody. It was at the Puente National, as I have said. I was standing under the bridge – the dry arch at the further end. It was just after dark; when, who should come there but Capitan Rayas, and the zambo following him. They were talking about this very niña: and I heard her name more than once. I did not hear much, for I had to keep a good distance off, so that they might not see me. But I heard that.”
“What?”
“What I’ve said about the offer of the onza. ‘Find out, Santucho,’ said Rayas – Santucho is the zambo’s name – ‘find out where he has hid her.’”
“Who has hid her?”
“Carrambo! that’s what I couldn’t make out; but who, if it wasn’t her own brother? – Calros, they call him.”
“There’s something ugly in all that,” remarked one of the men.
“It isn’t the niña, that’s certain,” jocularly rejoined Anton Chico.
“The zambo, then! he’s ugly enough. What say you, camarados?”
“The patron, who wanted to employ him, is no great beauty himself,” said one who had not before spoken. “Notwithstanding his fine trappings, he has got some black marks against him. Look here, hombres,” continued the speaker, drawing nearer to the others, and adopting a more confidential tone. “I’m a blind man, if I haven’t seen his phiz before; ay, and tapado at that.”
“Tapado?” echoed several.
“With black crape! It was only on my last trip but one up the country. I went with the recua of José Villares. He carried goods for that English house – you know – in the Calle do Mercaderos. Well, we were stopped at the Pinal, between Peroté and Puebla; every mule stripped of its carga; and every man of us, with José himself obliged to lie with our mouths to the grass, till the rascals had rifled the recua. They took only what was most valuable and easiest carried; but, carrambo! it well nigh ruined poor José; he has never been the same aniero since.”
“What of all that, hombre?” inquired one, who seemed to be still unsatisfied. “What has that to do with the Capitan Rayas?”
“Ah! I forgot,” said the accuser; “it was of the Capitan Rayas we were speaking. Well, it has this to do with him. The salteadores were all tapado, with black crape over their faces, their captain like the rest; but while he was engaged examining some papers he took from José, I caught a glance of his ugly countenance – just enough to know it again. If it wasn’t the same I saw the other day when I met this Rayas in the camp, then I don’t know chingarito from holy water. I’ll answer for it from the chin up to the eyes. Above that I didn’t see it, for the tapado was over it.”
“Bah!” exclaimed one of the men, who appeared to be of easy conscience himself; “what if the Capitan Rayas has done a little business on the road? There are officers in our army of higher rank than he who’ve cried out, ‘Boca abajo!’ – ay, some that are now generals!”
“Hush, camarade!” interrupted one who stood nearest the speaker. “See, the medico’s coming out. Guardate, guardate! it’s treason you’re talking!”
The interest with which I had listened to this singular palaver, had hindered me from entering the tent. The men had spoken loud enough for me to overhear every word – no doubt under the supposition that I did not understand their language – and to keep them in this belief, I had made pretence of being engaged in a whispering conversation with one of my own troopers who stood near.
As the return of the medico put an end to the talking of his attendants, I advanced to meet him, and inquired the condition of his patient.
“Thanks to your care, cavallero, he is out of danger from his wound. But from what he has confided to me – and to you also, I believe – he will be in danger of another kind by remaining in this place.”
I could tell from this speech that Calros had communicated to the surgeon the incidents of the preceding night.
“How long do you keep guard here?” inquired the Mexican, with an abstracted air.
“I am under orders to strike tents and march – exactly at noon.”
“To Jalapa, I presume?”
“To Jalapa.”
“In that case this young fellow must be carried back to the village of El Plan. A body of your troops will likely remain there for some time?”
“I believe that is the intention of our commander-in-chief.”
“Then the invalid would be safer there. It will do him no harm, if taken upon a stretcher. I must lend him half-a-dozen of my assistants, or pick up some stragglers to perform this service.”
“He would be safer in Jalapa?” I suggested, interrogatively. “Besides, the climate of Jalapa is much more favourable to the healing of wounds – is it not?”
“That is true,” answered the man of science; “but Jalapa is distant. We have not a single ambulance in our army. Who is to carry him there – a poor soldier?”
“A fine young fellow, notwithstanding. My men would not mind the trouble of taking him, if you think – ”
I looked round, in hopes that the proposal might be heard and approved by another.
The Jarocha was standing in the entrance of the tent, her face beaming with gratitude. No doubt it was due to the assurance which the surgeon had given her of her brother’s speedy recovery; but I fancied I could perceive, in the sparkle of her beautiful eyes, a smile indicative of consent to what I had proposed.
The surgeon comprehended not the cause of my friendly interest in the welfare of the wounded Jarocho.
Did Lola comprehend it? Did she suspect it? Endowed with the keen, delicate instincts of her race, it was probable she did; at least, I fancied so, from the kindly look with which she had listened to my suggestion.
After all, it might have been gratitude for my friendly intentions, and nothing more.
“I see no objection to his going up the road,” said the surgeon, after having spent some little time in considering, “It is very kind on your part, cavallero,” added he – “a stranger and an enemy.” Here the medico smiled. “It is only a continuation of your humane exertions during the past night.”
A smile, almost imperceptible, accompanied this last observation, together with the slightest raising of his eyes towards the Jarocha.
“Suppose,” said he, continuing his speech, and relieving me from some little embarrassment, “suppose we consult the wishes of the invalid himself. What say you, señorita?”
“Gracias, ñores,” replied the girl. “I shall ask brother Calros.”
“Calros!” she called out, turning her face towards the tent. “The young officer who has been so kind to you proposes to have you carried up the road to Jalapa. Would you like to go there? The medico says the air of Jalapa will be better for you than this place.”
With a fast-beating pulse I listened for the response of the invalid.
It was delayed. Calros appeared to be considering.
“Why?” I asked myself.
“Ay de mi!” broke in the voice of his sister, in a tone of ingenuous reflection. “It is very hot at El Plan.”
“Thanks, sweet Lola!” I mentally exclaimed, and listened for the decision of Calros, as a criminal waiting for his verdict.
Story 1, Chapter XIII
A Group of Jarochos
Had the wounded man been left free to choose, he would in all probability have decided in favour of being taken to Jalapa – that sanatorium for invalids of the tierra caliente.
I know not whether he had resolved the matter in his mind, but if so, the resolution rose not to his lips; for, as I stood over his couch, venturing to add my solicitations to that naïve insinuation of his sister, I heard voices outside the tent – voices of men who had just come up – inquiring for “Calros Vergara.”
“Hola!” cried the Jarocho, recognising the voices, “those are our friends, sister – people from Lagarto. Run out, niña, and tell them I am here!”
Lola glided towards the entrance of the tent.
“’Tis true, Calros,” she cried, as soon as she had looked out. “I see Vicente Vilagos, Ignacio Valdez, Rosario Très Villas, and the little Pablito!”
“Gracias a Dios!” exclaimed the invalid, raising himself on the catre. “I should not wonder if they’ve come to carry me home.”
“That’s just what we’ve come for,” responded a tall, stalwart specimen of a Jarocho, who at that moment stepped inside the tent, and who was hailed by the invalid as “Vicente Vilagos.” “Just that, Calros; and we’re glad to learn that the Yankee bullet has not quite stopped your breath. You’re all right, hombre! So the medico outside has been telling us; and you’ll be able, he says, to make the journey to Lagarto, where we’ll carry you as gingerly as a game cock; ay, and the niña, too, if she will only sit astride of my shoulders. Ha! ha! ha!”
By this time the other Jarochos, to the number of six or seven, had crowded inside the tent, and surrounded the catre in which lay their countryman – each grasping him by the hand on arriving within reach; and all saluting Lola with an air of chevalresque gracefulness worthy of the days of the Cid!
I stood aside – watching with curious interest this interchange of friendly feeling; which partook also of a national character: for it was evident that the visitors of Calros were all of the Jarocho race.
I had another motive for observing their movements, far stronger than that of mere curiosity. I looked to discover if among the new-comers I could recognise a rival!
I watched the countenance of Lola more than theirs, scrutinising it as each saluted her. I felt happy in having observed nothing – at least nothing that appeared like a glance of mutual intelligence. They were all thin, sinewy fellows, dark-skinned and dark-haired, having faces such as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to commit to canvas, and pointed chin-beards, like those painted by Vandyke.
None of them appeared to be over thirty years of age. Not one of them was ill-looking; and yet there was not one who inspired me with that unpleasant feeling too often the concomitant of love.
From all that I had yet seen, the rivalry of Rayas, Calros’s enemy, was more to be dreaded than that of any of his friends.
Vicente Vilagos was the oldest of the party, and evidently their leader pro tem.
It was no longer a question of carrying Calros to Jalapa. That, to his friends, would have appeared absurd – perhaps not the less so were Lola to urge it.
She said nothing, but stood apart. I fancied she was not too content at their coming, and the fancy was pleasant to me!
Surrounded by her enthusiastic friends, for a time I could not find an opportunity of speaking with her. I endeavoured to convey intelligence with my eyes.
The Jarochos are sharp fellows; skilled in courtesy, and thorough adepts in the art of love. I had reason to be careful. My peculiar position was against me, as it marked me out for their observation.
Their glances, however, were friendly. They had gathered some particulars of what had passed between their compatriot and myself.
“Come!” said Vilagos, after some minutes spent in arranging their plans. “’Tis time for us to take the road. ’Twill be sundown before we can rest under the palm-trees of Lagarto.”
The poetical phraseology did not surprise me: I knew it was Jarocho.
Calros had been placed upon a stretcher; and his bearers had already carried him outside the tent. Some broad leaves of the banana had been fixed over him as an awning, to shelter him from the rays of the sun.
“Ñor deconocio,” said Vilagos, coming up to me, and frankly extending his hand. “You’ve been kind to our con-paisano, though you be for the time our enemy. That, we hope, will soon pass; but whether it be in peace or in war, if you should ever stray to our little rancheria of Lagarto, you will find that a Jarocho can boast of two humble virtues —gratitud y hospitalidad! Adios!”
Each of the companions of Vilagos parted from me with an almost similar salutation.
I would have bidden a very different sort of adieu to Dolores, but was hindered by the presence of her friends, who clustered around.
I could find opportunity for only four words:
“Lola! I love you!”
There was no reply; not a word, not a whisper that reached me; but her large dark orbs, like the eyes of the mazame, flashed forth a liquid light that entered my soul, like fire from Cupid’s torch.
I was half delirious as I uttered the “adios.” I did not add the customary “Va con Dios!” nor yet the “hasta luego” – the “au revoir” of the Spanish, for which our boorish Saxon vocabulary has no synonym.
Notwithstanding the omission, I registered a mental vow —to see Lola Vergara again.
The beautiful Jarocha was gone from my sight!
“Shall I ever see her again?”
This was the interrogatory that came uppermost in my thoughts – not the less painful from my having perceived that she had lingered to look back.
Would she have preferred the road to Jalapa?
Whether or not, I had the vanity to think so.
Gone, without leaving me either promise or souvenir – only the remembrance of her voluptuous beauty – destined long to dwell within the shrine of my heart.
“Shall I ever see her again?”
Once – twice – thrice – involuntarily did I repeat the self-interrogation.
“Perhaps never!” was each time the equally involuntary reply.
In truth, the chances of my again meeting with her were very slight. To this conclusion came I, after a calm survey of the circumstances surrounding me. True, I had obtained the name of her native village – El Lagarto – and had registered a mental resolve to visit it.
What of that? A long campaign was before me, loading me in the opposite direction. The chances of being killed, and surviving it, were almost equally balanced in the scale. With such a prospect, when might I stray towards Lagarto?
There was but one answer to this question within my cognisance: whenever I should find the opportunity. With this thought I was forced to console myself.
I stood with my eyes fixed upon the turning of the road, where the overhanging branches of the acacias, with cruel abruptness, shrouded her departing figure from my sight. I watched the grecque bordering upon her petticoat, as the skirt swelled and sank, gradually narrowing towards the trees. I looked higher, and saw the fringed end of the reboso flirted suddenly outward, as if a hand, rather than the breeze, had caused the motion. I looked still higher. The face was hidden under the scarf. I could not see that, but the attitude told me that her head must be turned, and her eyes, “mirando atras!”
Kissing my hand, in answer to this final recognition, was an action instinctive and mechanical.
“I’ve been a fool to permit this parting – perhaps never to see her again!”
This was the reflection that followed. I entered the tent, and flung myself upon the catre lately occupied by the invalid.
A sleepless night, caused by excited passions, succeeding another passed equally without sleep, in which I had toiled, taking those useless howitzers up the steep slopes of El Plan – had rendered me somnolent to an extreme degree; and spite the chagrin of that unsatisfactory separation, I at length gave way to a god resistless as Cupid himself.