Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 8

VI

Their sole survivor now! his captors bear Him all unconscious, and beside the stream Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare Expectant of the torture; yet alway His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there With peace they know not, till at close of day On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!"

VII

He starts! Was it a trick? Had angels kind Touched with compa.s.sion some weak woman's breast?

Such things he'd read of! Faintly to his mind Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest.

But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined To baritone! A squaw in ragged gown Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind?

Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown?

The frown was painted, but that wink meant--Brown!

VIII

"Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut,"

He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse.

One dash!--I follow close, as if to glut My own revenge, yet bar the others' course.

Now!" And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows; but Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut His in, uplifting him! Anon he feels A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels.

IX

Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang Headlong the savages in swift pursuit; Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot.

Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang The short, hard panting of his gallant steed Beneath its double burden; vainly rang Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed!

X

Brown saw it--reined his steed; dismounting, stood Calm and inflexible. "Old chap! you see There is but ONE escape. You know it? Good!

There is ONE man to take it. You are he.

The horse won't carry double. If he could, 'Twould but protract this bother. I shall stay: I've business with these devils, they with me; I will occupy them till you get away.

Hush! quick time, forward. There! G.o.d bless you, Grey!"

XI

But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye: "You do forget yourself when you compete With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die: That's not YOUR duty. Please regain your seat; And take my ORDERS--since I rank you here!-- Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat Report at quarters. Take this letter; ne'er Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere."

XII

And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took Obediently and placed it in his pocket; Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look For death as you do, wherefore take this locket And letter." Here his comrade's hand he shook In silence. "Should we both together fall, Some other man"--but here all speech forsook His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all He heard afar his own dear bugle-call!

XIII

'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot He likewise had been wounded, and both men Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot.

Long lay they in extremity, and when They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged Old vows and memories, one common "den"

In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, Awaiting orders, but no more estranged.

XIV

And yet 'twas strange--nor can I end my tale Without this moral, to be fair and just: They never sought to know why each did fail The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust.

It was suggested they could not avail Themselves of either letter, since they were Duly dispatched to their address by mail By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.

II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS

THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO

This is the tale that the Chronicle Tells of the wonderful miracle Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero.

The heathen stood on his ancient mound, Looking over the desert bound Into the distant, hazy South, Over the dusty and broad champaign, Where, with many a gaping mouth And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, For seven months had the wasted plain Known no moisture of dew or rain.

The wells were empty and choked with sand; The rivers had perished from the land; Only the sea-fogs to and fro Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.

Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.

Thus they stood as the sun went down Over the foot-hills bare and brown; Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom The pale-face medicine-man should come, Not in anger or in strife, But to bring--so ran the tale-- The welcome springs of eternal life, The living waters that should not fail.

Said one, "He will come like Manitou, Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew."

Said another, "He will come full soon Out of the round-faced watery moon."

And another said, "He is here!" and lo, Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, Out from the desert's blinding heat The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.

They stood and gazed for a little s.p.a.ce Down on his pallid and careworn face, And a smile of scorn went round the band As they touched alternate with foot and hand This mortal waif, that the outer s.p.a.ce Of dim mysterious sky and sand Flung with so little of Christian grace Down on their barren, sterile strand.

Said one to him: "It seems thy G.o.d Is a very pitiful kind of G.o.d: He could not shield thine aching eyes From the blowing desert sands that rise, Nor turn aside from thy old gray head The glittering blade that is brandished By the sun He set in the heavens high; He could not moisten thy lips when dry; The desert fire is in thy brain; Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain.

If this be the grace He showeth thee Who art His servant, what may we, Strange to His ways and His commands, Seek at His unforgiving hands?"

"Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, "And thou shalt know whose mercy bore These aching limbs to your heathen door, And purged my soul of its gross estate.

Drink in His name, and thou shalt see The hidden depths of this mystery.

Drink!" and he held the cup. One blow From the heathen dashed to the ground below The sacred cup that the Padre bore, And the thirsty soil drank the precious store Of sacramental and holy wine, That emblem and consecrated sign And blessed symbol of blood divine.

Then, says the legend (and they who doubt The same as heretics be accurst), From the dry and feverish soil leaped out A living fountain; a well-spring burst Over the dusty and broad champaign, Over the sandy and sterile plain, Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones That lay in the valley--the scattered bones-- Moved in the river and lived again!

Such was the wonderful miracle Wrought by the cup of wine that fell From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, The very reverend Junipero.

THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN

Of all the fountains that poets sing,-- Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth, Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,-- In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.

Anno Domini eighteen-seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven,-- Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast--a descendant of Balaam's a.s.s-- Stopped on the instant, and would not pa.s.s.

The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then--as the Chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer-- His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet pear In the vacuum of a gla.s.s receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring.

Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.

The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.