Майн Рид
The Rifle Rangers
Chapter Fifty Three.
A Wholesale Capture
In a few minutes our greetings were over. Twing moved on, taking with him his squadron of mounted men. I had made up my mind to take the opposite road– the “back track”. I was now in command of a force – my own – and I felt keenly the necessity of doing something to redeem my late folly. Clayley was as anxious as myself.
“You do not need them any longer?” said I to Ripley, a gallant young fellow, who commanded the howitzer.
“No, Captain; I have thirty artillerists here. It is strange if we can’t keep the piece and manage it against ten times that number of such heroes as we have seen over yonder.” And he pointed to the flying enemy on the other side of the barranca.
“What say you to going with us?”
“I should like it well; but duty, my dear H. – duty! I must stay by the gun.”
“Good-bye, then, comrade! We have no time to lose – farewell!”
“Good-bye; and if you’re whipped, fall back on me. I’ll keep the piece here until you return, and there’ll be a good load of grape ready for anybody that may be in pursuit of you.”
The company had by this time formed on the flank of the howitzer, and at the words “Forward! – quick time!” started briskly across the hills.
In a few minutes we had reached the point where the road trended for some distance along the brow of the precipice. Here we halted a moment; and taking Lincoln and Raoul, I crawled forward to our former point of observation.
Our time spent at the battery had been so short that, with the difficulty which the enemy experienced in descending the cliff, the head of their line had only now reached the bottom of the barranca. They were running in twos and threes towards the stream, which, near this point, impinged upon the foot of the precipice. With a small glass that I had obtained from Ripley I could see their every movement. Some of them were without arms – they had doubtless thrown them away – while others still carried their muskets, and not a few were laden with knapsacks, and heavy burdens too; the household gods – perhaps stolen ones – of their own camp. As they reached the green-sward, dropping down in a constant stream, they rushed forward to the water, scrambling into it in thirsty crowds, and falling upon their knees to drink. Some of them filled their canteens and went on.
“They intend to take the hills,” thought I. I knew there was no water for miles in that direction.
As I swept the glass round the bottom of the cliff, I was struck with an object that stood in a clump of palm-trees. It was a mule saddled, and guarded by several soldiers more richly uniformed than the masses who were struggling past them.
“They are waiting for some officer of rank,” thought I. I moved the glass slowly along the line of descending bodies, and upward against the rocks to a small platform, nearly halfway up the cliff. Several bright uniforms flashed upon the lens. The platform was shaded with palms; and I could see that this party had halted a moment for the purpose (as I then conjectured) of allowing the foremost fugitives to pioneer the wooded bottom. I was right. As soon as these had crossed the stream, and made some way in the jungle along its banks, the former continued their descent; and now I saw what caused my pulse to beat feverishly – that one of these carried a dark object on his back. An object? – a man – and that man could be no other than the lame tyrant of Mexico.
I can scarcely describe my feelings at this moment. The young hunter who sees noble game – a bear, a panther, a buffalo – within reach of his rifle for the first time, might feel as I did. I hated this man, as all honest men must and should hate a cowardly despot. During our short campaign I had heard many a well-authenticated story of his base villainy, and I believe at that moment I would have willingly parted with my hand to have brought him as near to me as he appeared under the field of the telescope. I thought I could even distinguish the lines, deep furrowed by guilt, on his dark, malice-marked face; and, as I became sure of the identity, I drew back my head, cautioning my companions to do the same.
Now was the time for action, and, putting up the glass, we crawled back to our comrades. I had learned from Raoul that the dark line which I had noticed before was, as I had conjectured, the cañon of a small arroyo, heavily timbered, and forming a gap or pass that led to the Plan River. It was five miles distant, instead of three. So much the better, and with a quick, crouching gait we were once more upon our way. I had told my comrades enough to make some of them as eager as I. Many of them would have given half a life for a shot at game like that. Not a few of them remembered they had lost a brother on the plains of Goliad, or at the fortress of the Alamo.
The Rangers, moreover, had been chafing “all day for a fight”, and now, so unexpectedly led at something like it, they were just in the humour. They moved as one man, and the five miles that lay between us and the gorge were soon passed to the rear. We reached it, I think, in about half an hour. Considering the steep pass through which the enemy must come, we knew there was a breathing-time, though not long, for us; and during this I matured my plans, part of which I had arranged upon the route.
A short survey of the ground convinced us that it could not have been better fitted for an ambuscade had we chosen it at our leisure. The gorge or cañon did not run directly up the cliff, but in a zigzag line, so that a man at the top could only alarm another coming up after him by shouting or firing his piece. This was exactly what we wanted, knowing that, although we might capture a few of the foremost, those in the rear, being alarmed, could easily take to the river bottom and make their escape through the thickets. It was our design to make our prisoners, if possible, without firing a single shot; and this, under the circumstances, we did not deem an impossible matter.
The pass was a dry arroyo, its banks fringed with large pines and cotton-woods, matted together by llianas and vines. Where the gorge debouched into the uplands its banks were high and naked, with here and there a few scattered palmettos that grew up from huge hassocks of bunch-grass.
Behind each of these branches a rifleman was stationed, forming a deployed line, with its concave arc facing the embouchure of the gorge, and gradually closing in, so that it ended in a clump of thick chaparral upon the very verge of the precipice. At this point, on each side of the path, were stationed half a dozen men, in such a position as to be hidden from any party passing upward, until it had cleared the cañon and its retreat was secured against. At the opposite end of the elliptical deployment a stronger party was stationed, Clayley in command and Raoul to act as interpreter. Oakes and I took our places, commanding the separate detachments on the brow.
Our arrangements occupied us only a few minutes. I had to deal with men, many of whom had “surrounded” buffaloes in a somewhat similar manner; and it did not require much tact to teach them a few modifications in the game. In five minutes we were all in our places, waiting anxiously and in perfect silence.
As yet not a murmur had reached us from below, except the sighing of the wind through the tall trees, and the “sough” of the river as it tumbled away over its pebbly bed. Now and then we heard a stray shot, or the quick, sharp notes of a cavalry bugle; but these were far off, and only told of the wild work that was still going on along the road towards Encerro and Jalapa.
Not a word was spoken by us to each other. The men who were deployed along the hill lay hidden behind the hassocks of the palmettos, and from our position not one of them was to be seen.
I must confess I felt strange emotions at this moment – one of the most anxious of my life; and although I felt no hate towards the enemy – no desire to injure one of them, excepting him of whom I have spoken – there was something so wild, so thrilling, in the excitement of thus entrapping man, the highest of all animals, that I could not have foregone the inhuman sport. I had no intention that it should be inhuman. I well knew what would be their treatment as prisoners of war; and I had given orders that not a shot should be fired nor a blow struck, in case they threw down their arms and yielded without resistance. But for him– humanity had many a score to settle with him; and at the time I did not feel a very strong inclination to resist what would be the Rangers’ desire on that question.
“Is not all our fine ambuscade for nothing?” I said to myself, after a long period of waiting, and no signs of an enemy.
I had begun to fancy as much, and to suspect that the flying Mexicans had kept along the river, when a sound like the humming of bees came up the pass. Presently it grew louder, until I could distinguish the voices of men. Our hearts as yet beat louder than their voices. Now the stones rattled, as, loosened from their sloping beds, they rolled back and downwards.
“Guardaos, hombre!” (Look out, man!) shouted one.
“Carrajo!” cried another; “take care what you’re about! I haven’t escaped the Yankee bullets to-day to have my skull cloven in that fashion. Arriba! arriba!”
“I say, Antonio – you’re sure this road leads out above?”
“Quite sure, camarado.”
“And then on to Orizava?”
“On to Orizava —derecho, derecho” (straight).
“But how far —hombre?”
“Oh! there are halting-places —pueblitos.”
“Vaya! I don’t care how soon we reach them. I’m as hungry as a famished coyote.”
“Carrai! the coyotes of these parts won’t be hungry for some time. Vaya!”
“Who knows whether they’ve killed ‘El Cojo’?”
“‘Catch a fox, kill a fox.’ No. He’s found some hole to creep through, I warrant him.
“‘El que mata un ladron
Tiene cien años de perdon.’”
(He who kills a robber will receive a hundred years of pardon for the offence.)
This was hailed with a sally by the very men who, only one hour ago, were shouting themselves hoarse with the cries of “Viva el general, Viva Santa Anna!” And on they scrambled, talking as before, one of them informing his comrades with a laugh that if “los Tejanos” could lay their hands upon “El Cojo”, they, the Mexicans, would have to look out for a new president.
They had now passed us. We were looking at their backs. The first party contained a string of fifteen or twenty, mostly soldiers of the “raw battalions” – conscripts who wore the white linen jackets and wide, sailor-looking pantaloons of the volunteer.
Raw as these fellows were, either from their position in the battle, or, more likely, from a better knowledge of the country, they had been able thus far to make their escape, when thousands of their veteran companions had been captured. But few of them were armed; they had thrown their guns away in the hurry of flight.
At this moment we could distinguish the voice of Raoul:
“Alto! abajo las armas!” (Halt! down with your arms!)
At this challenge we could see – for they were still in sight – that some of the Mexicans leaped clear up from the ground. One or two looked back, as if with the intention of re-entering the gorge, but a dozen muzzles met their gaze.
“Adelante! adelante! —somos amigos.” (Forward! – we are friends), I said to them in a half-whisper, fearing to alarm their comrades in the rear, at the same time waving them onward.
As on one side Clayley presented a white flag, while on the other there was to be seen a bunch of dark yawning tubes, the Mexicans were not long in making their choice. In a minute they had disappeared from our sight, preferring the companionship of Clayley and Raoul, who would know how to dispose of them in a proper manner.
We had scarcely got rid of these when another string debouched up the glen, unsuspicious as were their comrades of the fate that awaited them.
These were managed in a similar manner; and another and another party, all of whom were obliged to give up their arms and fling themselves to the earth, as soon as they had reached the open ground above.
This continued until I began to grow fearful that we were making more prisoners than we could safely hold, and on the knowledge of this fact they might try to overpower us.
But the tempting prize had not yet appeared. He could not be far distant, and, allured by this prospect, I determined to hold out a while longer.
A termination, however, to our wholesale trapping was brought about by an unexpected event. A party, consisting of some ten or fifteen men, many of them officers, suddenly appeared, and marched boldly out of the gorge.
As these struck the level ground we could hear the “Alto!” of Raoul; but instead of halting, as their companions had done, several of them drew their swords and pistols and rushed down the pass.
A volley from both sides stopped the retreat of some; others escaped along the sides of the cliff; and a few – not over half a dozen – succeeded in entering the gorge. It was, of course, beyond our power to follow them; and I ordered the deployed line to close in around the prisoners already taken, lest they should attempt to imitate their braver comrades.
We had no fear of being assailed from the ravine. Those who had gone down carried a panic along with them that would secure us from that danger. At the same time we knew that the tyrant would now be alarmed and escape.
Several of the Rangers —souvenirs of Santa Fé and San Jacinto – requested my permission to go upon his “trail” and pick him off.
This request, under the circumstances, I could not grant, and we set about securing our prisoners. Gun-slings and waist-belts were soon split into thongs, and with these our captives were tied two and two, forming in all a battalion of a hundred and fifteen files – two hundred and thirty men.
With these, arranged in such a manner as we could most conveniently guard them, we marched triumphantly into the American camp.
Chapter Fifty Four.
A Duel, with an odd Ending
After the battle of Cerro Gordo, our victorious troops pursued the enemy on to Jalapa, where the army halted to bring up its wounded, and prepare for an advance upon the capital of Mexico.
The Jalapenos did not receive us inhospitably – nor the Jalapenas either. They expected, as a matter of course, that we would sack their beautiful city. This we did not do, and their gratitude enabled our officers to pass their time somewhat agreeably. The gay round that always succeeds a battle – for dead comrades are soon forgotten amidst congratulations and new titles – had no fascination for me.
The balls, the tertulias, the dias de campo, were alike insipid and tiresome. She was not there – and where? I knew not. I might never see her again. All I knew was that they had gone up the country – perhaps to Cordova or Orizava.
Clayley shared my feelings. The bright eyes in the balconies, the sweet voices in the orange-shaded patios of Jalapa, had neither brightness nor music for us. We were both thoroughly miserable.
To add to this unhappy state of things, a bad feeling had sprung up among the officers of our army – a jealousy between the old and the new. Those of the old standing army, holding themselves as a species of military aristocracy, looked upon their brethren of the new regiments as “interlopers”; and this feeling pervaded all ranks, from the commander-in-chief down to the lowest subaltern.
It did not, however, interest all individuals. There were many honourable men on both sides who took no part in a question so ridiculous, but, on the contrary, endeavoured to frown it down. It was the child of idleness and a long spell of garrison duty. On the eve of a battle it always disappeared. I have adverted to this, not that it might interest the reader, but as explaining a result connected with myself.
One of the most prominent actors in this quarrel, on the side of the “old regulars”, was a young officer named Ransom, a captain in an infantry regiment. He was a good fellow in other respects, and a brave soldier, I believe; his chief weakness lay in a claim to be identified with the “aristocracy.”
It is strange that this miserable ambition is always strongest where it should exist with the least propriety. I have observed, in travelling through life – and so has the reader, no doubt – that parvenus are the greatest sticklers for aristocratic privilege; and Captain Ransom was no exception to this rule. In tumbling over some old family papers, I had found a receipt from the gallant captain’s grandfather to my own progenitor, acknowledging the payment of a bill for leather breeches.
It so happened that this very receipt was in my portmanteau at the time; and, nettled at the “carryings-on” of the tailor’s grandson, I drew it forth and spread it out upon the mess-table. My brethren of the mess were highly tickled at the document, several of them copying it off for future use.
A copy soon reached Ransom, who, in his hour of indignation, made use of certain expressions that, in their turn, soon reached me.
The result was a challenge, borne by my friend Clayley, and the affair was arranged for the following morning.
The place chosen for our morning’s diversion was a sequestered spot upon the banks of the river Zedena, and along the solitary road that leads out towards the Cofre de Perote.
At sunrise we rode out in two carriages, six of us, including our seconds and surgeons. About a mile from town we halted, and leaving the carriages upon the road, crossed over into a small glade in the midst of the chaparral.
It was as pretty a spot for our purpose as the heart could wish for, and had often, we were informed, been used for similar morning exercises – that was, before chivalry had died out among the descendants of Cortez and the conquerors.
The ground was soon lined off – ten paces – and we took our stands, back to back. We were to wheel at the word “Ready!” and fire at “One, two, three!”
We were waiting for the word with that death-like silence which always precedes a similar signal, when Little Jack, who had been left with the carriages, rushed into a glade, calling with all his might:
“Captain! Captain!”
Every face was turned upon him with scowling inquiry, when the boy, gasping for breath, shouted out:
“The Mexicans are on the road!”
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the trampling of hoofs sounded in our ears, and the next moment a band of horsemen came driving pell-mell into the opening. At a single glance we recognised the guerilla!
Ransom, who was nearest, blazed away at the foremost of the band, missing his aim. With a spring the guerillero was over him, his sabre raised for the blow. I fired, and the Mexican leapt from his saddle with a groan.
“Thank you, Haller,” cried my antagonist, as we rushed side by side towards the pistols.
There were four pairs in all, and the surgeons and seconds had already armed themselves, and were pointing their weapons at the enemy. We seized the remaining two, cocking them as we turned.
At this moment my eye fell upon a black horse, and, looking, I recognised the rider. He saw and recognised me at the same moment, and, driving the spurs into his horse’s flanks, sprang forward with a yell. With one bound he was over me, his white teeth gleaming like a tiger’s. His sabre flashed in my eyes – I fired – a heavy body dashed against me – I was struck senseless to the earth!
I was only stunned, and in a few moments I came to my senses. Shots and shouts rang around me. I heard the trampling of hoofs and the groans of wounded men.
I looked up. Horsemen in dark uniforms were galloping across the glade and into the woods beyond. I recognised the yellow facings of the American dragoons.
I drew my hand over my face; it was wet with blood. A heavy body lay across mine, which Little Jack, with all his strength, was endeavouring to drag off. I crawled from under it, and, bending over, looked at the features. I knew them at a glance. I muttered to my servant:
“Dubrosc! He is dead!”
His body lay spread out in its picturesque attire. A fair form it was. A bullet – my own – had passed through his heart, killing him instantly. I placed my hand upon his forehead. It was cold already, and his beautiful features were white and ashy. His eyes glared with the ghastly expression of death.
“Close them!” I said to the boy, and turned away from the spot.
Wounded men lay around, dragoons and Mexicans, and some were already dead.
A party of officers was at the moment returning from the pursuit, and I recognised my late adversary, with our seconds and surgeons. My friend Clayley had been wounded in the mêlée, and I observed that he carried his arm in a sling. A dragoon officer galloped up.
It was Colonel Harding.
“These fellows, gentlemen,” cried he, reining up his horse, “just came in time to relieve me from a disagreeable duty. I have orders from the commander-in-chief to arrest Captains Haller and Ransom.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued with a smile, “I think you have had fighting enough for one morning, and if you will promise me to be quiet young men, and keep the peace, I shall, for once in my life, take the liberty of disobeying a general’s orders. What say you, gentlemen?”
It needed not this appeal. There had been no serious cause of quarrel between my adversary and myself, and, moved by a similar impulse, we both stepped forward and grasped one another by the hand.
“Forgive me, my dear Haller,” said Ransom, “I retract all. I assure you my remarks were only made upon the spur of the moment, when I was angry about those cursed leather breeches.”
“And I regret to have given you cause,” I replied. “Come with me to my quarters. Let us have a glass of wine together, and we shall light our cigars with the villainous document.”
A burst of laughter followed, in which Ransom good-naturedly joined; and we were soon on our way to town, seated in the same carriage, and the best friends in creation!
Some of the soldiers who had “rifled” the body of Dubrosc found a paper upon him which proved that the Frenchman was a spy in the service of Santa Anna. He had thrown himself into the company at New Orleans with the intention of gaining information, and then deserting on his arrival at Mexico. This he succeeded in doing in the manner detailed. Had he been in command of the “Rifle Rangers”, he would doubtless have found an opportunity to deliver them over to the enemy at La Virgen or elsewhere.
