Фредерик Марриет
Travels and Adventures of Monsieur Violet
This manoeuvre of the old general, which extricated his troops from their dangerous position and recovered his field-pieces, had also the advantage of rendering our artillery of no further service, as we could not move them down the hill. As the battle was still to be fought, I resolved to attack them before they had time to breathe, and while they were yet panting and exhausted with their recent exertions.
Till then the Californians had been merely spectators of the conflict. I now put myself at their head and charged the Mexicans’ square in front, while the Shoshones did the same on the left, and the Apaches on the right.
Five or six times were we repulsed, and we repeated the charge, the old commander everywhere giving directions and encouraging his men. Roche and I were both wounded, fifteen of the Californians dead, the ranks of Shoshones much thinned by the unceasing fire of the artillery, and the Apaches were giving way in confusion. I was beginning to doubt of success, when Gabriel, having succeeded in recalling the Arrapahoes from their pursuit of the fugitive cavalry, re-formed them, made a furious charge upon the Mexicans on the only side of the square not already assailed, and precisely at the moment when a last desperate effort of the Shoshones and my own body of Californians had thrown the ranks opposed to us into confusion.
The brave old commander, perceiving he could no longer keep his ground, retreated slowly, with the intention of gaining the rugged and broken ground at the base of the mountains behind him, where our cavalry could no longer assail him.
Perceiving his intention, and determining, if possible, to prevent his retreat, the Arrapahoes having now rejoined us, we formed into one compact body and made a final and decisive charge, which proved irresistible. We broke through their ranks and dispersed them. For a time my command and power ceased; the Indians were following their own custom of killing without mercy, and scalping the dead. One-half of the enemy were destroyed; but Martinez succeeded with the remainder in reaching his intended position.
But the Mexican troops considered it useless to contend any more, and shortly afterwards the old general himself rode towards us with a flag, to ascertain the conditions under which we would accept his surrender. Poor man! He was truly an estimable officer. The Indians opened their ranks to let him pass, while all the Californians, who felt for his mortification, uncovered themselves as a mark of respect. The old general demanded a free passage back to Senora, and the big tears were in his eyes as he made the proposal. Speaking of his younger associates, he never used a word to their disparagement, though the slight curl of his lip showed plainly how bitter were his feelings; he knew too that his fate was sealed, and that he alone would bear the disgrace of the defeat.
So much was he respected by the Californians, that his request was immediately granted, upon his assurance that, under no circumstance, he would return to California as a foe. As Martinez departed, a Shoshone chief, perceiving that his horse was seriously wounded, dismounted from his own, and addressed him:—
“Chief of the Watchinangoes (Mexicans) and brother brave warrior! a Shoshone can honour as well as fight an enemy: take this horse; it has been the horse of a Red-skin warrior, it will be faithful to the Pale-face.”
The general bowed upon his saddle, and descended, saying, in few words, that he now learned to esteem the Indian warriors who had overpowered him on that fated day, both by their gallantry and generosity. When the Indian proceeded to change the saddles, Martinez stopped him:
“Nay, brother,” said he; “keep it with the holsters and their contents, which are more suitable to a conqueror and a young warrior than to a vanquished and broken-hearted old man.”
Having said this, he spurred his new horse, and soon rejoined his men. We returned to the encampment, and two hours afterwards we saw the Mexicans in full retreat towards the rising sun.
That night was one of mourning; our success had been complete, but dearly purchased. The Arrapahoes alone had not suffered. The Apaches had lost thirty men, the Shoshones one hundred and twelve, killed and wounded, and the Montereyans several of their most respected young citizens. On the following day we buried our dead, and when our task was over, certain that we should remain unmolested for a considerable time, we returned to San Francisco—the Indians to receive the promised bounty, and I to make arrangements for our future movements.
By the narrative I have given, the reader may have formed an accurate idea of what did take place in California. I subsequently received the Mexican newspapers, containing the account of what occurred; and as these are the organs through which the people of Europe are enlightened, as to the events of these distant regions, I shall quote the pages, to show how truth may be perverted.
“Chihuahua—News of the West—Californian Rebellion.—This day arrived in our city a particular courier from the Bishop of Senora, bearer of dispatches rather important for the welfare of our government. The spirit of rebellion is abroad; Texas already has separated from our dominions; Yucatan is endeavouring to follow the pernicious example, and California has just now lighted the flambeau of civil war.
“It appears that, excited by the bad advices of foreigners, the inhabitants of Monterey obliged the gallant governor to leave his fireside. This warlike officer found the means of forwarding dispatches to Senora, while he himself, uniting a handful of brave and faithful citizens, landed in the bay of San Francisco, in order to punish the rebels. By this time the governor of Senora, with the élite of the corps of the army under his orders, having advanced to his help, was decoyed into the rebels’ camp under some peaceful pretext, and shamefully murdered.
“It is yet a glory to think that even a Mexican rebel could not have been guilty of so heinous a crime. The performer of that cowardly deed was a Frenchman, living among the Indians of the west, who, for the sake of a paltry sum of gold, came to the aid of the rebels with many thousands of the savages. His next step was to enter San Francisco, and there, the horrors he committed recall to our mind the bloody deeds performed in his country during the great revolution. But what could be expected from a Frenchman? Fonseca was executed as a malefactor, the city plundered, the booty divided among the red warriors; besides an immense sum of money which was levied upon the other establishments, or, to say better, extorted, upon the same footing as the buccaneers of old.
“The news having reached the central government of the west, General Martinez assumed upon himself the responsibility of an expedition, which, under the present appearances, shewed his want of knowledge, and his complete ignorance of military tactics. He was met by ten thousand Indians, and a powerful artillery served by the crews of many vessels upon the coast—vessels bearing rather a doubtful character. Too late he perceived his error, but had not the gallantry of repairing it and dying as a Mexican should. He fled from the field almost in the beginning of the action, and had it not been for the desperate efforts of the cavalry, and truly wonderful military talents displayed by three or four young officers who had accompanied him, the small army would have been cut to pieces. We numbered but five hundred men in all, and had but a few killed and wounded, while the enemy left behind them on the field more than twelve hundred slain.
“The gallant young officers would have proceeded to San Francisco, and followed up their conquest, had the little army been in possession of the necessary provisions and ammunition; but General Martinez, either from incapacity or treachery, had omitted these two essential necessaries for an army. We are proud and happy to say, that Emanuel Bustamente, the young distinguished officer, of a highly distinguished family, who conducted himself so well in Yucatan during the last struggle, commanded the cavalry, and it is to his skill that we Mexicans owe the glory of having saved our flag from a deep stain.
“Postcriptum.—We perceive that the cowardly and mercenary Martinez has received the punishment his treachery so well deserved; during his flight he was met by some Indians and murdered. May divine Providence thus punish all traitors to the Mexican government!”
I regret to say that the last paragraph was true. The brave Martinez, who had stood to the last, who had faced death in many battles, had been foully murdered, but not, as was reported, by an Indian: he had fallen under the knife of an assassin—but it was a Mexican who had been bribed to the base deed.
Up to the present all had prospered. I was called “The Liberator, the Protector of California.” Splendid offers were made to me, and the independence of California would have been secured, had I only had two small vessels to reduce the southern sea-ports which had not yet declared themselves, either fearing the consequences of a rebellion, or disliking the idea of owing their liberation to a foreign condottiere, and a large force of savages.
The Apaches returned home with eighty mules loaded with their booty; so did the Arrapahoes with pretty nearly an equal quantity. My Shoshones I satisfied with promises, and returned with them to the settlement, to prepare myself for forthcoming events.
A few chapters backwards I mentioned that I had despatched my old servant to Monterey. He had taken with him a considerable portion of my jewels and gold to make purchases, which were firmly to establish my power over the Indian confederacy. A small schooner, loaded with the goods purchased, started from Monterey; but never being seen afterwards, it is probable that she fell into the hands of the pirate vessels which escaped from San Francisco.
I had relied upon this cargo to satisfy the just demands of my Indians upon my arrival at the settlement. The loss was a sad blow to me. The old chief had just died, the power had devolved entirely upon me, and it was necessary, according to Indian custom, that I should give largess, and shew a great display of liberality on my accession to the command of the tribe; so necessary, indeed, was it, that I determined upon returning to Monterey, viâ San Francisco, to provide what was requisite. This step was a fatal one, as will be shewn when I narrate the circumstances which had occurred during my absence.
Upon hearing the news of our movements in the west, the Mexican government, for a few days, spoke of nothing but extermination. The state of affairs, however, caused them to think differently; they had already much work upon their hands, and California was very far off. They hit upon a plan, which, if it shewed their weakness, proved their knowledge of human nature. While I was building castles in the air, agents from Mexico privately came to Monterey and decided the matter.
They called together the Americans domiciled at Monterey, who were the wealthiest and the most influential of the inhabitants, and asked them what it was that they required from the government? Diminution of taxes, answered they. It was agreed. What next? Reduction of duty on foreign goods? Agreed again. And next? Some other privileges and dignities. All these were granted.
In return for this liberality, the Mexican agents then demanded that two or three of the lower Mexicans should be hung up for an example, and that the Frenchman and his two white companions should be decoyed and delivered up to the government.
This was consented to by these honest domiciliated Americans, and thus did they arrange to sacrifice me who had done so much for them. Just as everything had been arranged upon between them and the agents, I most unfortunately made my appearance, with Gabriel and Roche, at the mission at San Francisco. As soon as they heard of our arrival, we were requested to honour them with our company at a public feast, in honour of our success!! It was the meal of Judas. We were all three seized and handed over to the Mexican agents. Bound hand and foot, under an escort of thirty men, the next morning we set off to cross the deserts and prairies of Senora, to gain the Mexican capital, where we well knew that a gibbet was to be our fate.
Such was the grateful return we received from those who had called us to their assistance. Such was my first lesson in civilised life!
Note: Americans, or Europeans, who wish to reside in Mexico, are obliged to conform to the Catholic religion, or they cannot hold property and become resident merchants. These were the apostates for wealth who betrayed me.
Chapter Eighteen
As circumstances, which I have yet to relate, have prevented my return to the Shoshones, and I shall have no more to say of their movements in these pages, I would fain pay them a just tribute before I continue my narrative. I wish the reader to perceive how much higher the Western Indians are in the scale of humanity than the tribes of the East, so well described by Cooper and other American writers. There is a chivalrous spirit in these rangers of the western prairies not to be exceeded in history or modern times.
The four tribes of Shoshones, Arrapahoes, Comanches, and Apaches never attempt, like the Dahcotah and Algonquin, and other tribes of the East, to surprise an enemy; they take his scalp, it is true, but they take it in the broad day; neither will they ever murder the squaws, children, and old men, who may be left unprotected when the war-parties are out. In fact, they are honourable and noble foes, sincere and trustworthy friends. In many points they have the uses of ancient chivalry among them, so much so as to induce me to surmise that they may have brought them over with them when they first took possession of the territory.
Every warrior has his nephew, who is selected as his page; he performs the duty of a squire, in ancient knight errantry, takes charge of his horse, arms, and accoutrements; and he remains in this office until he is old enough to gain his own spurs. Hawking is also a favourite amusement, and the chiefs ride out with the falcon, or small eagle, on their wrist or shoulder.
Even in their warfare, you often may imagine that you were among the knights of ancient days. An Arrapahoe and a Shoshone warrior armed with a buckler and their long lances, will single out and challenge each other; they run a tilt, and as each has warded off the blow, and passed unhurt, they will courteously turn back and salute each other, as an acknowledgment of their enemy’s bravery and skill. When these challenges take place, or indeed in any single combat without challenge, none of these Indians will take advantage of possessing a superior weapon. If one has a rifle and knows that his opponent has not, he will throw his rifle down, and only use the same weapon as his adversary.
I will now relate some few traits of character, which will prove the nobility of these Indians.11
Every year during the season dedicated to the performing of the religious ceremonies, premiums are given by the holy men and elders of the tribe to those among the young men who have the most distinguished themselves. The best warrior receives feather of the black eagle; the most successful hunter obtains robe of buffalo-skin, painted inside, and representing some of his most daring exploits; the most virtuous has for his share coronet made either of gold or silver; and these premiums an suspended in their wigwams, as marks of honour, and handed down to their posterity. In fact, they become a kind of écusson which ennobles a family.
Once during the distribution of these much-coveted prizes, a young man of twenty-two was called by the chiefs to receive the premium of virtue. The Indian advanced towards his chiefs when an elder of the tribe rising, addressed the whole audience. He pointed the young man out, as one whose example should be followed, and recorded, among many other praiseworthy actions that three squaws, with many children, having been reduced to misery by the death of their husbands in the last war agains the Crows; this young man, although the deceased were the greatest foes of his family, undertook to provide for their widow and children till the boys, grown up, would be able to provide for themselves and their mothers. Since that time, he had given them the produce of his chase, reserving to himself nothing but what was strictly necessary to sustain the wants of nature. This was a noble and virtuous act, one that pleased the Manitou. It was an example which all the Shoshones should follow.
The young man bowed, and as the venerable chief was stooping to put the coronet upon his head, he started back and, to the astonishment of all, refused the premium.
“Chiefs, warriors, elders of the Shoshones, pardon me! You know the good which I have done, but you know not in what I have erred. My first feeling was to receive the coronet, and conceal what wrong I had done; but a voice in my heart forbids my taking what others have perchance better deserved.
“Hear me, Shoshones! the truth must be told; hear my shame! One day, I was hungry; it was in the great prairies. I had killed no game, and I was afraid to return among our young men with empty hands. I remained four days hunting, and still I saw neither buffaloes nor bears. At last, I perceived the tent of an Arrapahoe. I went in; there was no one there, and it was full of well-cured meat. I had not eaten for five days; I was hungry, and I became a thief. I took away a large piece, and ran away like a cowardly wolf. I have said: the prize cannot be mine.”
A murmur ran through the assembly, and the chiefs, holy men, and elders consulted together. At last, the ancient chief advanced once more towards the young man, and took his two hands between his own. “My son,” he said, “good, noble, and brave; thy acknowledgment of thy fault and self-denial in such a moment make thee as pure as a good spirit in the eyes of the great Manitou. Evil, when confessed and repented of, is forgotten; bend thy head, my son, and let me crown thee. The premium is twice deserved and twice due.”
A Shoshone warrior possessed a beautiful mare; no horse in the prairie could outspeed her, and in the buffalo or bear hunt she would enjoy the sport as much as her master, and run alongside the huge beast with great courage and spirit. Many propositions were made to the warrior to sell or exchange the animal; but he would not hear of it. The dumb brute was his friend, his sole companion; they had both shared the dangers of battle and the privations of prairie travelling; why should he part with her? The fame of that mare extended so far, that in a trip he made to San Francisco, several Mexicans offered him large sums of money; nothing, however, could shake him in his resolution. In those countries, though horses will often be purchased at the low price of one dollar, it often happens that a steed, well-known as a good hunter or a rapid pacer, will bring sums equal to those paid in England for a fine race-horse.
One of the Mexicans, a wild young man, resolved to obtain the mare, whether or no. One evening, when the Indian was returning from some neighbouring plantation, the Mexican laid down in some bushes at a short distance from the road, and moaned as if in the greatest pain. The good and kind-hearted Indian having reached the spot, heard his cries of distress, dismounted from his mare, and offered any assistance: it was nearly dark, and although he knew the sufferer to be a Pale-face, yet he could not distinguish his features. The Mexican begged for a drop of water, and the Indian dashed into a neighbouring thicket to procure it for him. As soon as the Indian was sufficiently distant, the Mexican vaulted upon the mare, and apostrophised the Indian:—
“You fool of a Red-skin, not cunning enough for a Mexican: you refused my gold; now I have the mare for nothing, and I will make the trappers laugh when I tell them how easily I have outwitted a Shoshone.”
The Indian looked at the Mexican for a few moments in silence, for his heart was big, and the shameful treachery wounded him to the very core. At last, he spoke:—
“Pale-face,” said he, “for the sake of others, I may not kill thee. Keep the mare, since thou art dishonest enough to steal the only property of a poor man; keep her, but never say a word how thou camest by her, lest hereafter a Shoshone, having learned distrust, should not hearken to the voice of grief and woe. Away, away with her! let me never see her again, or in an evil hour the desire of vengeance may make a bad man of me.”
The Mexican was wild, inconsiderate, and not over-scrupulous, but not without feeling: he dismounted from his horse, and putting the bridle in the hand of the Shoshone, “Brother,” said he, “I have done wrong, pardon me! from an Indian I learn virtue, and for the future, when I would commit any deed of injustice, I will think of thee.”
Two Apaches loved the same girl; one was a great chief, the other a young warrior, who had entered the war-path but a short time. Of course, the parents of the young girl rejected the warrior’s suit, as soon as the chief proposed himself. Time passed, and the young man, broken-hearted, left all the martial exercises, in which he had excelled. He sought solitude, starting early in the morning from the wigwam, and returning but late in the night, when the fires were out. The very day on which he was to lead the young girl to his lodge, the chief went bear-hunting among the hills of the neighbourhood. Meeting with a grizzly bear, he fired at him; but at the moment he pulled the trigger his foot slipped, and he fell down, only wounding the fierce animal, which now, smarting and infuriated with pain, rushed upon him.
The chief had been hurt in his fall, he was incapable of defence, and knew that he was lost; he shut his eyes, and waited for his death-blow, when the report of a rifle, and the springing of the bear in the agonies of death, made him once more open his eyes; he started upon his feet, there lay the huge monster, and near him stood the young warrior who had thus timely rescued him.
The chief recognised his rival, and his gratitude overpowering all other feelings, he took the warrior by the hand and grasped it firmly.
“Brother,” he said, “thou hast saved my life at a time when it was sweet, more so than usual; let us be brothers.”
The young man’s breast heaved with contending passions, but he, too, was a noble fellow.
“Chief,” answered line, “when I saw the bear rushing upon thee, I thought it was the Manitou who had taken compassion on my sufferings, my heart for an instant felt light and happy; but as death was near thee, very near, the Good Spirit whispered his wishes, and I have saved thee for happiness. It is I who must die! I am nothing, have no friends, no one to care for me, to love me, to make pleasant in the lodge the dull hours of night. Chief; farewell!”
He was going, but the chief grasped him firmly by the arm:—
“Where dost thou wish to go? Dost thou know the love of a brother? Didst thou ever dream of one? I have said we must be brothers to each other; come to the wigwam.”
They returned to the village in silence, and when they arrived before the door of the council lodge, the chief summoned everybody to hear what he had to communicate, and ordered the parents to bring the young girl.
“Flower of the magnolia,” said he, taking her by the hand, “wilt thou love me less as a brother than as a husband? speak! Whisper thy thought to me! Didst thou ever dream of another voice than mine, a younger one, breathing of love and despair?”
Then leading the girl to where the young warrior stood—
“Brother,” said he, “take thy wife and my sister.”
Turning towards the elders, the chief extended his right arm so as to invite general attention.
“I have called you,” said he, “that an act of justice may be performed; hear my words:—
“A young antelope loved a lily, standing under the shade of a sycamore, by the side of a cool stream. Daily he came to watch it as it grew whiter and more beautiful; he loved it very much, till one day a large bull came and picked up the lily. Was it good? No! The poor antelope fled towards the mountains, never wishing to return any more under the cool shade of the sycamore. One day he met the bull down, and about to be killed by a big bear. He saved him; he heard only the whisper of his heart; he saved the bull, although the bull had taken away the pretty lily from where it: stood, by the cool stream. It was good, it was well! The bull said to the antelope, ‘We shall be brothers, in joy and in sorrow!’ and the antelope said, there could be no joy for him since the lily was gone. The bull considered; he thought that a brother ought to make great sacrifices for a brother, and he said to the antelope: ‘Behold, there is the lily, take it before it droops away, wear it in thy bosom and be happy.’ Chiefs, sages, and warriors! I am the bull; behold! my brother the antelope. I have given unto him the flower of the magnolia; she is the lily, that grew by the side of the stream, and under the sycamore. I have done well, I have done much, yet not enough for a great chief, not enough for a brother, not enough for justice! Sages, warriors, hear me all; the flower of the magnolia can lie but upon the bosom of a chief. My brother must become a chief, he is a chief, for I divide with him the power I possess: my wealth, my lodge, are his own; my horses, my mules, my furs, and all! A chief has but one life, and it is a great gift than cannot be paid too highly. You have heard my words: I have said!”
This sounds very much like a romance, but it is an Apache story, related of one of their great chiefs, during one of their evening encampments.
An Apache having, in a moment of passion accidentally killed one of the tribe, hastened to the chiefs to deliver himself up to justice. On his way he was met by the brother of his victim, upon whom, according to Indian laws, fell the duty of revenge and retaliation; they were friends and shook hands together.
“Yet I must kill thee, friend,” said the brother.
“Thou wilt!” answered the murderer; “it is thy duty, but wilt thou not remember the dangers we have passed together, and provide and console those I leave behind in my lodge?”
“I will,” answered the brother; “thy wife shall be my sister during her widowhood, thy children will never want game, until they can themselves strike the bounding deer.”
The two Indians continued their way in silence, till at once the brother of the murdered one stopped.
“We shall soon reach the chiefs,” said he, “I to revenge a brother’s death, thou to quit for ever thy tribe and thy children. Hast thou a wish? think, whisper!”
The murderer stood irresolute, his glance furtively took the direction of his lodge. The brother continued:—
“Go to thy lodge. I shall wait for thee till the setting of the sun, before the council door. Go! thy tongue is silent; but I know the wish of thy heart. Go!”
Such traits are common in Indian life. Distrust exists not among the children of the wilderness, until generated by the conduct of white men. These stories and thousand others, all exemplifying the triumph of virtue and honour over baseness and vice, are every day narrated by the elders, in presence of the young men and children. The evening encampment is a great school of morals, where the Red-skin philosopher embodies in his tales the sacred precepts of virtue. A traveller, could he understand what was said, as he viewed the scene, might fancy some of the sages of ancient Greece inculcating to their disciples those precepts of wisdom which have transmitted their name down to us bright and glorious, through more than twenty centuries.
I have stated that the holy men among the Indians, that is to say, the keepers of the sacred lodges, keep the records of the great deeds performed in the tribe; but a tribe will generally boast more of the great virtues of one of its men than of the daring of its bravest warriors. “A virtuous man,” they say, “has the ear of the Manitou, he can tell him the sufferings of Indian nature, and ask him to soothe them.”
Even the Mexicans, who, of all men, have had most to suffer and suffer daily from the Apaches, (What I here say of the Apaches applies to the whole Shoshone race.) cannot but do them the justice they so well deserve. The road betwixt Chihuahua and Santa Fé is almost entirely deserted, so much are the Apaches dreaded; yet they are not hated by the Mexicans half as much as the Texians or the Americans. The Apaches are constantly at war with the Mexicans, it is true, but never have they committed any of those cowardly atrocities which have disgraced every page of Texian history. With the Apaches there are no murders in cold blood, no abuse of the prisoners; a captive knows that he will either suffer death or be adopted in the tribe; but he has never to fear the slow fire and the excruciating torture so generally employed by the Indians in the United States’ territories.
Their generosity is unbounded, and by the treatment I received at their hands the reader may form an idea of that brave people. They will never hurt a stranger coming to them: a green bough in his hand is a token of peace; for him they will spread the best blankets the wigwam can afford, they will studiously attend to his wants, smoke with him the calumet of peace, and when he goes away, whatever he may desire from among the disposable wealth of the tribe, if he asks for it, it is given.
Gabriel was once attacked near Santa Fé, and robbed of his baggage by some honest Yankee traders. He fell in with a party of Apaches, to whom he related the circumstance. They gave him some blankets and left him with their young men at the hunting-lodges they had erected. The next day they returned with several Yankee captives, all well tied, to prevent any possibility of escape. These were the thieves, and what they had taken of Gabriel was of course restored to him. One of the Indians saying, that the Yankees, having blackened and soiled the country by theft, should receive the punishment of dogs, and as it was beneath an Apache to strike them, cords were given to them, with orders that they should chastise each other for their rascality. The blackguards were obliged to submit, and the dread of being scalped was too strong upon them to allow them to refuse. At first, they did not seem to hurt each other much; but one or two of them, smarting under the lash, returned the blows in good earnest, and then they all got angry and beat each other so unmercifully that, in a few minutes, they were scarcely able to move. Nothing could exceed the ludicrous picture which Gabriel would draw out of this little event.
