The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Story 1, Chapter XIV

      An Infamous Epistle

      There is an interest – will any man deny it? – in awaking from one’s slumber, and finding that the postman has been; the fact made manifest by the presence of an epistle tying proximate to your pillow, and within reach of your hand.

      It is an interest of a peculiarly pleasant nature, if the epistle be perfumed, the envelope of limited dimensions, crested, cream-laid, and endorsed by a chirography of the “angular” type.

      The effect, though sometimes as startling, is not quite so pleasant, when the “cover” is of a bluish tint, the superscription “clerkly,” and, instead of a crest enstamped upon the seal, you read the cabalistic words, “Debt, Dunn, and Co.”

      As I awoke from my matutinal slumber – under canvas that had sheltered his Excellency Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna – my eyes looked upon a letter, or something that resembled one.

      The sight inspired me neither with the thought which would have been suggested by a billet-doux nor a dun, but yet with an interest not much yielding to either; for in the superscription placed fair before my eyes I read the full cognomen and titles of the Mexican tyrant: —

      “Al excellentissimo Señor, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, General en gefe del Ejercito Mexicano.”

      The presence of the epistle was easily explained, for I was lying on the camp-bedstead upon which, the night before, had reclined the despot of Anahuac – perhaps after sleeping less tranquilly than I. Protruding from under the leathern catre was the letter, where it had, in all probability, been deposited after perusal.

      On perceiving it, my feeling was one of curiosity – perhaps something more. I was, of course, curious to peruse the correspondence of an individual, in my way of thinking, more notorious than distinguished. At the same time a vague hope had entered my mind, that the envelope enclosed some private despatch, the knowledge of which might be of service to the Commander-in-chief of the American army.

      I had no scruples about reading the epistle – not the slightest. There was no seal to be broken; and if there had been, I should have broken it without a moment’s hesitation.

      The letter was addressed – in no very fair hand – to an enemy, not only of my nation, but, as I deemed him, an enemy of mankind.

      I drew the sheet from its cover – a piece of coarse foolscap, folded note fashion. The writing was in pencil, and just legible.

      “Excellentissimo Señor! – La niña se huye del campamento. Es cierto que la ha mandado el hermano. Ha recibido la putita las propuestas de V.E. con muchas señales de civilidad. No tenga V. cuidad. Yo soy alerte. En buen tiempo, dormira ella en la tienda y los brazos de V.E. o no esta mia nombre.

      “Ramon Ratas.”

      Literal translation: —

      “Most СКАЧАТЬ