The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       Table of Contents

      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, СКАЧАТЬ