The Guerilla Chief Part 17

Knowing this, I surrendered without making the least movement or resistance.

It was a motley group in whose midst I stood: in this respect equalling a party of Guy Fawkes mimers. No two were dressed exactly alike, though there was a general similitude of costume among them, especially in the particular articles of broad-brimmed hats, and wide-legged trowsers of velveteen.

Some of them had _serapes_ hanging scarf-like over their shoulders; but all were armed with long knives (_machetes_), and lances; I could also see short guns (_escopetas_) strapped along the sides of their saddles.

"A _guerilla_," I muttered to myself, thinking I had fallen among a hand of guerilleros.

I was soon undeceived, and found I had not been so fortunate. The ruffian countenances of my captors--as soon as I had time to scrutinise them more closely--the coa.r.s.e jests and ribald language pa.s.sing between them, along with some other professional peculiarities--told me that, instead of a band of partisans, I was in the clutches of a _cuadrilla_ of _salteadores_--true robbers of the road!

My observation of the fact was not calculated to tranquillise my spirits, but the contrary. As a general rule, the bandits of Mexico are not bloodthirsty. If the purse be freely delivered up to them, they have no object in ill-treating the person of their captives. It is only when the latter show ill-humour, or attempt resistance, that their lives are in danger.

At that time, however, with the country in a state of active war--with a hated enemy marching victorious along its roads--some of the outlawed chiefs had become inspired with a sort of sham patriotism--in most instances for the purpose of being left free to plunder, or else with the design of obtaining pardon for past offences. Though occasionally acting as guerilleros, and attacking the wagon trains of the American army, their patriotism was of a very ambiguous order; and not unfrequently were their own countrymen the victims of their despoiling propensities.

In one respect only did this patriotism display itself with partiality, and that was in the ferocity with which they treated such American prisoners as had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Horrible mutilations were common--with all the vindictive modes of punishment known to the _lex talionis_.

I could easily believe, while regarding the ferocious faces around me, that I was in great danger of some fearful fate: perhaps to be drawn and quartered; perhaps burnt alive; perhaps--I knew not what--I could only conjecture something terrible.

After I had been pulled about for some minutes, and rudely abused by several of the band, a man made his appearance in their midst, who seemed to exert over the others some species of authority. The word "capitan," p.r.o.nounced by several as he came forward, told me that he was the chief of the robbers; and his appearance ent.i.tled him to the distinction.

He was a man of large frame, and swarthy complexion--heavily bearded and moustached. His dress was splendid in the extreme--being a full suit of _ranchero_ costume, with all its ornamental tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of gold lace, bell-b.u.t.tons, and needlework embroidery.

The countenance of this man might have been handsome, but for an expression of ferocity that pervaded it; and this was so marked as at once to impress the beholder with the belief that it was the face of a fiend rather than of a human being.

A row of white teeth glistened under his coal-black moustache; and these, as he came near the spot where I was held captive, were displayed, in what was intended for a smile of gratification, but which had all the characteristics of a grin.

I supposed at first that this gratification simply proceeded from his having made prisoner one of the enemies of his country. I had no idea that it could by any possibility have especial reference to myself.

One thing, however, struck me as peculiar. When the brigand spoke-- addressing some words of direction to his subordinates--I fancied I had heard his voice before!

It fell on my ears without producing an agreeable impression. Rather the contrary; but where I could have heard it, or why it should jar upon my ear, were questions I could not answer.

I had been a good deal among Mexicans of all cla.s.ses--not only since the capture of Vera Cruz, but long before the commencement of the campaign.

My knowledge of their language had naturally inducted me into a more extensive acquaintance with our enemies than was the lot of most of my comrades. For this reason it did not follow that the sound of a familiar voice should lead to the instant recognition of the man who uttered it--more especially as he from whom it proceeded was before my eyes in _propria persona_--the chief of a band of salteadores.

I scanned the robber's face with as much minuteness as circ.u.mstances would permit. I could not perceive in it a single feature that I remembered ever to have seen before.

Perhaps I was mistaken about the voice?

I listened to hear it again. Not long was I kept waiting. Once more it was raised; not, as before, in words addressed to the _salteadores_ who surrounded me, but to myself.

"Ho, _cavallero_!" cried the robber chief, coming up to the spot where I stood, and speaking in a tone of triumphant exultation; "you are welcome among us--the more especially as I owe you a _revanche_ for the little bit of service you did me last night. If I am not mistaken, it is to your bullet I am indebted for this."

As the brigand spoke, he threw back upon his shoulders the closed folds of his _manga_, exposing his right arm to my view. I saw that it was carried in a sling, and that the hand, protruding beyond the scarf that supported it, was wrapped in cotton rags, that were stained with blotches of dry blood!

My memory needed no further refreshing. No wonder that the bandit's voice had fallen upon my ears with a familiar sound. It was the same I had heard only the night before, giving utterance to that hideous threat of which I had hindered the fulfilment--the same that had cried, "Die, Calros Vergara!"

No additional explanation was required. I stood in the presence of Ramon Rayas!

"How feel you now?" continued the robber, in a taunting tone, not unmingled with fierce bitterness. "Don Quixote of the modern time!

You, the protector of female innocence! Ha! ha! ha!"

"Ah," cried he, turning round, and fixing his eyes upon my beautiful horse--held captive, like myself, by half a score of lazos. "_Por Dios_! You have the advantage of La Mancha's knight in your mount. A steed fit for a salteador! He will suit me, as if he had been foaled on purpose.

"Ho there, Santucho!" he cried out to one of his band, who was holding Moro by the bridle-rein. "Off with that stupid saddle, and replace it with my own. I just wanted such a horse. Thank you, _Senor Americano_!

You can have mine in exchange; and you will be the more welcome to him since you have only one more ride to make before making that great leap that will launch you into the gulf of eternity! Ha! ha! ha!"

To this series of taunting speeches I offered no reply. Words of mine would have been idle as the murmurings of the wind. I knew it; and withheld them.

"Into your saddles, _leperos_!" cried the brigand, thus familiarly addressing himself to his subordinates. "Bring your prisoner along with you. Strap him tightly to the horse. Have a care he don't escape! If he do you shall dearly rue your negligence, besides losing the pleasure of a spectacle which I shall provide for you after we arrive at the _Rinconada_."

Rayas leaped upon the back of my own brave steed, which chafed, discontented, under the clumsy caparison of the Mexican saddle; but more so when mounted by one whom he seemed to recognise as the enemy of his master.

For myself I was roughly pitched upon the back of the brigand's horse; and, after being securely tied, hands behind, and legs to the stirrup-leathers, I was conducted from the ground, a brace of brigands riding, one on either side, and guarding me with a vigilance that forbade me to indulge in the slightest hope of escape.

Story 1, Chapter XXI.

ROBBERS EN ROUTE.

At a short distance from the spot where I had been lazoed, the road taken by the robbers debouched from the forest, and entered the _chapparal_.

No longer under the gloomy shadow of the great trees, I had a better view of the band, and could see that they were genuine _salteadores_.

Indeed, I had not doubted it from the first--at least, not after discovering who was their leader. The wounded Jarocho had told me that most of the guerillos commanded by Rayas, were no better than brigands; and that such honest fellows as himself, who had been forced to join it, would all return to their homes, after the breaking up of the Mexican army by the defeat of Cerro Gordo.

What I now saw was no longer Rayas' _guerillas_, but a remnant of it--or rather the individuals of that organisation, who had been his bandit a.s.sociates before the breaking out of the war.

There were in all between twenty and thirty of these patriotic brigands; and from the opportunity I now had of scanning the faces of such as were near me, I can justly affirm that a more ferocious set of ruffians I never beheld--to the full as picturesque, and evidently as pitiless, as their Italian brethren of the Abruzzi.

On their march they observed a sort of rude order--riding two and two-- though this formation was forced upon them by the necessity of the narrow path, rather than from any control of their leader.

Where the road at intervals ran through openings, the ranks were broken at will; and the troop would get clumped together, to string out again on re-entering the chapparal path.

For myself, I was guarded by a brace of morose wretches, as I have said, one riding on each side of me; and both armed with long naked blades; which, had I shown the slightest sign of attempting to escape, would have been thrust into me without either reluctance or remorse.

But there was no chance even to make the attempt. I was strapped to the stirrups, with my hands firmly bound behind my back; and lest the steed, on which they had mounted me, should stray from the track, the lazo of one of my keepers was pa.s.sed through the bitt-ring of the bridle, and then attached to the tree of the robber's own saddle.

In this manner was our march conducted--the route being towards Orizava.

There was no mistaking the direction: for the snow-capped summit of the great "Citlapetel" was right before our faces--piercing up into a sky of cloudless azure.

From the top of a ridge which we crossed, shortly after coming out of the timber, I discovered that we were yet at no great distance from Cerro Gordo itself; so near, that on glancing back--for we were now riding away from it--I could see the American flag upon "El Telegrafo,"

and could even distinguish the stars and stripes!

My chase after the riderless horse had carried me several miles from Corral Falso; but I had been all the while riding back in the direction of the battle-field--in a line nearly parallel to the main road, over which my troop had been travelling. It was only on re-entering the timber that the chase had conducted me in a different direction-- southward, towards Orizava.

I could now understand how I had fallen into the hands of Rayas and his robbers.

After the battle, these worthies had lingered in the neighbourhood of the field--for what purpose I knew not then--plunder, I supposed--and this was, no doubt, the explanation, so far as most of them were concerned. Their chief, however, had a different object; one which, ere long, I was enabled to comprehend.

The character of the country around Cerro Gordo--a labyrinth of _canons_ and _barrancos_--covered with a thick growth of tangled chapparal, rendered their remaining near the field of their defeat an easy matter-- unattended with danger. They knew the pursuit had pa.s.sed up the main road to Jalapa; and there was not the remotest chance of their being followed across country.