The Free Lances Part 30

San Augustin is a _pueblo_, endowed with certain munic.i.p.al privileges.

It boasts of an _alcalde-mayor_ with other corporate officers, and a staff of alguezils, or policemen.

The heads of departments are mostly men of pure Spanish race--"gente de razon," as they proudly proclaim themselves--though many are in reality of mixed blood, Mestizos. Of this are the better cla.s.s of shopkeepers, few in number, the _gente de razon_ at best forming a scarce discernible element in the population, which is mainly made up of the brown aborigines.

At a certain season of the year, however, paler complexions show in the ascendant. This during carnival time--"_Las Pascuas_." Then the streets of San Augustin are crowded with gay promenaders; while carriages and men on horseback may be seen in continuous stream pa.s.sing to and fro between it and the capital. In Las Pascuas week, one day with another, half Mexico is there engaged in a gambling orgie, as Londoners at Epsom during the Derby. More like Homburg and Monaco, though; since the betting at Tlalpam is not upon the swiftness of horses, but done with dice and cards. The national game, "monte," there finds fullest ill.u.s.tration, grand marquees being erected for its play-- real temples erected to the G.o.ddess Fortuna. Inside these may be seen crowds of the strangest composition, in every sense heterogeneous; military officers, generals and colonels, down to the lowest grade, even sergeants and corporals, sitting at the same table and staking on the same cards; members of Congress, Senators, Cabinet Ministers, and, upon occasions, the Chief of the State, jostling the ragged _lepero_, and not unfrequently standing elbow to elbow with the footpad and salteador!-- Something stranger still, ladies compose part of this miscellaneous a.s.semblage; dames of high birth and proud bearing, but in this carnival of cupidity not disdaining to "punt" on the _sota_ or _cavallo_, while brushing skirts with bare-armed, barefooted rustic damsels, and _poblanas_, more elaborately robed, but with scantier reputation.

After all, it is only Baden on the other side of the Atlantic; and it may be said in favour of San Augustin, the fury lasts for only a few days, instead of a whole season. Then the _monte_ banks disappear, with their dealers and croupiers; the great tents are taken down; the gamesters, gentle and simple, scatter off, most going back to the city; and the little _pueblo_ Tlalpam, resuming its wonted tranquillity, is scarce thought of till Carnival comes again.

In its normal condition, though some might deem it rather dull, it is nevertheless one of the pleasantest residential villages in the Valley.

Picturesquely situated at the foot of the southern Sierras, which form a bold mountain background, it has on the other side water scenery in the curious Laguna de Xochimilco, while the grim Pedregal also approaches it, giving variety to its surroundings.

Besides its fixed population there is one that may be termed floating or intermittent; people who come and go. These are certain "ricos," who chiefly affect its suburbs, where they have handsome houses--_casas de campo_. Not in hundreds, as at San Anjel and Tacubaya, Tlalpam being at a greater and more inconvenient distance from the capital. Still there are several around it of first-cla.s.s, belonging to _familias princ.i.p.ales_, though occupied by them only at intervals, and for a few days or weeks at a time.

One of these, owned by Don Ignacio Valverde, was a favourite place of residence with him; a tranquil retreat of which he was accustomed to avail himself whenever he could get away from his ministerial duties.

Just such an interregnum had arisen some time after the stirring incidents we have recorded, and he went to stay at his San Augustin house with his daughter, the Condesa Almonte going with them as their guest. Since their last appearance before the reader, all three had pa.s.sed through scenes of trial. An investigation had been gone into regarding the Calle de Plateros affair--private, however, before Santa Anna himself, the world not being made the wiser for it. Its results were all in their favour, thanks to the stern, stubborn fidelity of Jose, who lied like a very varlet. Such a circ.u.mstantial story told he, no one could suspect him of complicity in the escape of the _forsados_; far less that his mistress, or the Condesa Almonte had to do with it.

Don Ignacio, too, had done his share to hinder discovery of the truth.

For, in the end, it was found necessary to take him into the secret, the missing cloak and pistols, with several mysterious incidents, calling for explanation. But in making a clean breast of it, his daughter had felt no fear of being betrayed by him. He was not the father to deal harshly with his child; besides, it was something more--a real danger.

In addition, she knew how he was affected towards the man she had aided to escape--that he held Don Florencio in highest esteem; looked upon him as a dear friend, and in a certain tacit way had long ago signified approval of him for a son-in-law. All these thoughts pa.s.sed through Luisa Valverde's mind while approaching her father, and steeling herself to make confession of that secret she might otherwise have kept from him.

The result was not disappointing. Don Ignacio consented to the deception, and they were saved. Whatever the suspicions of Santa Anna and his adjutant, both were baffled about that affair, at least for the time.

Alike had they been frustrated in their pursuit of the _escapados_.

Despite the most zealous search through the Pedregal and elsewhere, these could not be found, nor even a trace of them. Still, they were not given up. Every town and village in the valley, in the mountains around, and the country outside were visited by soldiers or spies--every spot likely to harbour the fugitives. Pickets were placed everywhere and patrols despatched, riding the roads by night as by day, all proving abortive.

After a time, however, this vigorous action became relaxed. Not that they who had dictated were less desirous of continuing it; but because a matter of more importance than mere personal spite or vengeance was soon likely to declare itself, and threaten their own safety. Talk was beginning to be heard, though only in whispers, and at a far distance from the capital, of a new _p.r.o.nunciamento_ in preparation. And in making counter-preparations, the Dictator had now enough to occupy all his energies; not knowing the day or the hour he might again hear the cry he so dreaded, "Patria y Libertad."

Meanwhile the people had ceased to speak of the stirring episode which had occurred in the Calle de Plateros; thought strange only from the odd circ.u.mstances attendant, and the fact of two of the fugitives being _Tejanos_. The city of Mexico has its daily newspapers, and on the morning after a full account of it appeared in _El Diario_ and _El Monitor_. For all it was but the topic of a week; in ten days no more heard of it; in a month quite forgotten, save by those whom it specially concerned. So varied are the events, so frequent the changes, so strange the Cosas de Mexico!

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

OVER THE CLIFF.

For some time after their arrival at the old monastery, neither Kearney nor Cris Rock saw aught of their late "fourth fellow" prisoner--the hunchback. They cared not to inquire after him; the Texan repeating himself by saying,--"This chile don't want ever to sit eyes on his ugly pictur agin." They supposed that he was still there, however, somewhere about the building.

And so was he, with a chain attached to his leg, the same he had shared with Rock, its severed end now padlocked to a ring bolt; and the apartment he occupied had as much of the prison aspect as any cell in the Acordada. No doubt, in days gone by, many a refractory brother had pined and done penance therein for breach of monastic discipline.

Why the mis-shapen creature was so kept needs little explanation; for the same reason as prompted to bringing him thither. Helpless as he might appear, he was not harmless; and Don Ruperto knew that to restore him to liberty would be to risk losing his own, with something more.

Though safely bestowed, however, no severity was shown him. He had his meals regularly, and a bed to sleep on, if but a pallet, quite as good as he had been accustomed to. Moreover, after some time had elapsed, he was relieved from this close confinement during the hours of the day. A clever actor, and having a tongue that could "wheedle with the devil,"

he had wheedled with the mayor-domo to granting him certain indulgences; among them being allowed to spend part of his time in the kitchen and scullery. Not in idleness, however, but occupied with work for which he had proved himself well qualified. It was found that he had once been "boots" in a _posado_, which fitted him for usefulness in many ways.

In the _cocina_ of the old convent his temper was sorely tried, the other "mozos" making cruel sport of him. But he bore it with a meekness very different to what he had shown while in the Acordada.

Thus acquitting himself, Gregorio, who had him in special charge, began to regard him as a useful if not ornamental addition to his domestic staff of the establishment. Notwithstanding, the precaution was still continued of locking him at night and re-attaching the chain to his ankle. This last was more disagreeable than aught else he had to endure. He could bear the jibes of his fellow-scullions, but that fetter sorely vexed him; as night after night he was accustomed to say to the mayor-domo as he was turning the key in its clasp.

"It's so uncomfortable, Senor Don Gregorio," was his constantly recurring formula. "Keeps me from sleeping and's very troublesome when I want to turn over, as I often do on account of the pains in my poor humped shoulders. Now, why need you put it on? Surely you're not afraid of me trying to get away? Ha, ha! that would be turning one's back upon best friends. _Cascaras_! I fare too well here to think of changing quarters. Above all, going into the Acordada; where I'd have to go sure, if I were to show my face in the city again. Oh no, Senor!

you don't catch me leaving this snug crib, so long's you allow me to board and bed in it. Only I'd like you to let me off from that nasty thing. It's cold too; interferes with my comfort generally. Do, good Don Gregorio! For this one night try me without it. And if you're not satisfied with the result, then put it on ever after, and I won't complain, I promise you."

In somewhat similar forms he had made appeals for many nights in succession, but without melting the heart of the "Good Don Gregorio."

At length, however, it proved effectual. Among various other avocations he had been a _Zapartero_, of the cla.s.s cobbler, and on a certain day did service to the mayor-domo by mending his shoes. For which he received payment in the permission to pa.s.s that night without being discommoded by the chain.

"It's so very kind of you, Don Gregorio!" he said, when made aware of the grace to be given to him. "I ought to sleep sound this night, anyhow. But whether I do or not, I shall pray for you before going to bed all the same. _Buenas noches_!"

It was twilight outside, but almost total darkness within the cell, as the mayor-domo turned to go out of it. Otherwise he might have seen on the dwarfs features an expression calculated to make him repent his act of kindness, and instantly undo it. Could he have divined the thoughts at that moment pa.s.sing through Zorillo's mind, the clasp would have quickly closed around the latter's leg, despite all grat.i.tude due to him for the patching of the shoes.

"If I can get out," he commenced in mental soliloquy, as the footfall of the mayor-domo died away in the distant corridor, "out and away from them, my fortune's made; all sorts of good things in store for me. From this time forth I needn't fear to present myself at the door of the Acordada; walk right into it. No danger of Don Pedro keeping me there now. Instead, I should be sent out again with a free pardon and a full purse. _Chingara_, talk of a cat in the cupboard, here are a score of them--half a hundred! And when I let them out--aha!"

He paused; then rising to his feet, moved across to the door, and laid his ear against it to listen. He heard sounds, but they were sounds of merriment--the counterfeit monks at their evening meal--and did not concern him.

"What a bit of luck it may turn out, after all, my getting coupled to that great brute and brought here! That is, if all goes well, and I can give them the slip. First, to make sure about the possibility of getting out of this hole. _Carrai_! I may be counting my chickens in the eggs."

Leaving the door, he glided across to the window, and set himself square against it, as if to measure its breadth by that of his own body. It was but a slit, unglazed, a single iron bar, placed vertically, dividing the aperture into two. Without removing this he could not possibly pa.s.s through. But he had the means to remove it; that file, already known to the reader, which he had contrived to get possession of, and for days kept secret in his cell. First, however, he must see whether it was worth while using it; for during all the time of his being there he had never been allowed an opportunity to approach the window and look out.

Leaning forward into the recess, he thrust his head between the bar and jamb, so far out as to give him a view of the ground below. This was solid rock, the crest of a steep slope, from which the wall rose as above a b.u.t.tress. But there was a ledge, some ten or twelve feet under the sill, narrow, but wide enough to afford footing, which led off to more level ground. How was he to reach it?

He knew, or he would not have acted as he now did. For without spending another second in the survey, he drew back from the window, plunged his hand under his bed mat, drew forth the file, and commenced rasping away at the bar. Not noisily or in any excited haste. Even if the obstacle were removed, the time had not come for his attempt to pa.s.s out. He would wait for an hour after midnight, when all had gone to their beds.

Eaten with rust, the iron was easily sawed through, a clean cut being made near its lower end. Then, laying aside the file, and grasping the bar, he wrenched it out of the solderings. If diminutive in body, his arms were sinewy and strong as those of a coal-heaver.

This task accomplished, he turned to his pallet and taking up the old blanket allowed him for a covering, began to tear it into strips. He meant to make a rope of it to lower himself down outside. But finding it quite rotten, and doubting whether it would bear his weight, he desisted and sat for a time considering. Not long till he bethought himself of something more suitable for his purpose--the chain.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, tossing aside the rags he had commenced splicing together, "why didn't I think of that? Well, it's not too late yet.

Good three yards--long enough. And the stupid has left the key behind, which fits both ends. So, Mr Chain, considering the world of worry and trouble you've been to me, it's time, and only fair, you should do me a good turn by way of recompense. After you've done it, I'll forgive you."

While muttering this quaint apostrophe, he commenced groping about over the floor--not for the chain, but the key, which he knew Gregorio had left, after releasing his leg from the clasp. The mayor-domo had either forgotten, or did not think it was worth while taking it away.

Having found it, he felt his way to the ring bolt, and unlocking the clasp at that end, returned to the window, taking the chain with him.

Having made one end fast around the stump of the bar, he lowered the other down outside, cautiously, without a tinkle of its links. And now again looking out and below, he was delighted to see that it reached within a foot or two of the ledge. All this done, he once more sat down on the side of the bed, to await the hour of midnight.

But he was not long quiescent, when a thought occurring caused him to resume action.

"Why not try it now?" he mentally interrogated. "They're all in the Refectory, having a fine time of it, drinking their famous wines. Some grand occasion, I heard one of the _mozos_ say. There mightn't be a better chance for me than this very minute--maybe not so good.

_Carramba_! I'll risk it now."

Quickly at the words he glided back to the window, climbed up into it, and squeezing out through the aperture, let himself down on the chain, link by link, as a monkey making descent of a _lliana_ in the forests of the _tierra caliente_.

Soon as he found himself safe landed he let go the chain, and after a minute or so spent in silent reconnaissance of the ledge, commenced moving off along it.

Right he was in choosing that early hour, for the way he must needs take led out into the open ground, in front of the building, where at a later one a watch would have been stationed. There was none there now, and without stop or challenge he pa.s.sed on and down.

Though they had never allowed him to go outside the building, he perfectly remembered the path by which he and the others had reached it, on that memorable night after their escape from the chain-gang. He recalled the two steep slopes, one above the other, with a narrow shelf between, on which they encountered the sentinel, who had hailed, "_Quien viva_?"

Sure to be one there now, and to such hail what answer could he make?

On this he reflected while descending the upper slope. The darkness due to the overshadowing trees made it necessary for him to go slowly, so giving him time. But it did not hinder his keeping to the path. With his long arms like the tentacles of an octopus he was able to direct his course, now and then using them to grasp overhanging branches, or the parasites dependent therefrom. Withal he went cautiously, and so silently, that the sentinel--for sure enough one was there--heard no noise to warn him of an enemy behind. In his monkish garb, he was standing on the outer edge of the shelf rock, his face turned to the valley, which was just beginning to show silvery white under the rays of a rising moon. Perhaps, like Don Ruperto, he was gazing on some spot, a house endeared to him as the home of his childhood; but from which, as the leader of the Free Lances, he had been bereft by the last confiscation. Possibly he was indulging in the hope of its being soon restored to him, but least of all dreaming of danger behind.