The Guerilla Chief Part 12

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 circ.u.mstances 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sions, succeeding another pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 t.i.tles of the Mexican tyrant:--

"_Al excellentissimo Senor, 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 coa.r.s.e foolscap, folded note fashion. The writing was in pencil, and just legible.

"_Excellentissimo Senor!--La nina se huye del campamento. Es cierto que la ha mandado el hermano. Ha recibido la put.i.ta las propuestas de V.E.

con muchas senales 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 Excellent Sire!--The young girl has disappeared from the camp-- a.s.suredly by the command of her brother. The 'put.i.ta' (a word not to be translated) listened to the proposal of your Excellency with much show of complaisance. Don't have any disquietude about the result. I am on the alert. In good time she shall sleep in the tent and arms of your Excellency, or my name isn't_.

"Ramon Ratas."

Whatever of sleep was left in my body or brain, was at once dispelled by the reading of this disgusting epistle. I had not the slightest doubt as to whom it referred. "La nina" could be no other than Dolores Vergara.

There might be other ninas following the Mexican army who had brothers, but the communication of Rayas pointed to one who had lately disappeared from the camp--a circ.u.mstance identifying her with the sister of Calros.

Besides, what other was likely to have tempted the cupidity of the tyrant--his l.u.s.t (for it was clearly such a pa.s.sion), which his pander had promised to gratify?

I was less surprised by the contents of the epistle than by the circ.u.mstances under which I had found it, and the peculiar coincidences that rendered its contents so easy of interpretation.

The character of Santa Anna--well known to me as to others--was in exact keeping with what might be inferred from the communication of his correspondent. Lascivious to an extreme degree, his amatory intrigues have been as numerous as his political machinations. At least half the leisure of his life has been devoted to dallying with the Delilahs of his land, of whom there is no scarcity.

Even the loss of his leg--shot off at the siege of Vera Cruz by Joinville--failed to cure him of his erotic propensities. At the time of which I speak--nearly ten years after having parted with his limb--he was still the same gay wooer of women; though now, in his mature age, occasionally standing in need of the _alcohuete_, as well as the exercise of other vile influences.

Among these last, the bestowal of military commissions was well known to be one of his most common means of corruption; and many a young _alferes_ owed his _inglorious epaulette_--many a captain his command-- to the questionable merit of possessing a pretty sister.

Such was Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, Dictator of Mexico, and "generalissimo" of her armies.

With this knowledge of his character, I felt but little surprised at the contents of that "confidential" epistle. Nor was my contempt for him to whom it was directed so strong as it might have been, had my conscience been clear. In the impurity of my own thoughts, I was neither qualified to judge, nor privileged to condemn, the iniquities of another.

I could scarcely conceive how any one could look upon Lola Vergara without being inspired with a wish to become either her husband or her lover; and as _El Cojo_--already _wived_--could not be the former, it was but natural for such a man, placed in his all-commanding position, to indulge in the hopeful antic.i.p.ation of being accepted as the latter.

With shame I confess it, I felt but little surprise at the discovery of this intrigue; and if I felt contempt, it was less for the sin itself, than for the way in which it was intended to be committed. With this sort of despite I was sufficiently inspired, extending equally to the patron and the panderer.

"Cowardly wretches!" I involuntarily exclaimed, crushing the piece of paper between my fingers; "both villains alike! And the brute Rayas!

who talked of loving--of becoming _himself_ her husband! Ha! No doubt would he do so: to obtain a better price for his precious commodity.

Double dastard! It is difficult to believe in such infamy!"

For some time I strode backward and forward across the floor of the tent, muttering such speeches, and giving way to such thoughts.

Mingling with my disgust for the tyrant and his pimp, there was another feeling that caused me acute pain. Had the wretch any right to apply that vile epithet "put.i.ta?" Was there any truth in his statement that she had listened _with complaisance_ to the proposals of V.E.--proposals of the nature of which there could be no misconception?

Notwithstanding the source from which the insinuation came, I will not deny that, at the moment it caused me suspicions, and something more-- something very like _chagrin_.

It was less the knowledge of Lola's character--of which I could know but little--than that of her countrywomen, that inspired me with this suspicion. Moreover, it was difficult to conceive how one so lovely and loveable could have lived to her age under the burning skies of the _tierra caliente_, without having loved.