The Free Lances Part 5

"You're right thar, lootenant," rejoined Rock. "He ain't worth eyther, that's the truth. An' 'twould only be puttin' pisen on the blade o' my knife to smear it wi' his black blood. F'r all, I ain't a-gwine to let him off so easy's all that, unless you an' the captain insists on it.

After the warmish work he's had, an' the sweat he's put himself in by the wearin' o' two s.h.i.+rts at a time, I guess he won't be any the worse of a sprinkling o' cold water. So here goes to gie it him."

Saying which, he strode off towards the ditch, half-dragging, half-carrying Santander along with him.

The cowed and craven creature neither made resistance, nor dared. Had he done so, the upshot was obvious. For the Texan's blade, still bared, was s.h.i.+ning before his eyes, and he knew that any attempt on his part, either to oppose the latter's intention or escape, would result in having it buried between, his ribs. So, silently, sullenly, he allowed himself to be taken along, not as a lamb to the slaughter, but a wolf, or rather dog, about to be chastised for some malfeasance.

In an instant after, the chastis.e.m.e.nt was administered by the Texan laying hold of him with both hands, lifting him from off his feet, and then dropping him down into the water-ditch, where, weighted with the steel s.h.i.+rt, he fell with a dead, heavy plunge, going at once to the bottom.

"That's less than your desarvin's," said the Texan, on thus delivering his charge. "An' if it had been left to Cris Rock 'twould 'a been _up_, 'stead o' _down_, he'd 'a sent ye. If iver man desarved hangin', you're the model o' him. Ha--ha--ha! Look at the skunk now!"

The last words, with the laugh preceding them, were elicited by the ludicrous appearance which Santander presented. He had come to the surface again, and, with some difficulty, owing to the enc.u.mbrance of his under-s.h.i.+rt, clambered out upon the bank. But not as when he went under. Instead, with what appeared a green cloak over his shoulders, the sc.u.m of the stagnant water long collecting undisturbed. The hackney-driver--there was but one now, the other taken off by Duperon, who had hired him, their doctor too--joined with Rock in his laughter, while Kearney, Crittenden, and their own surgeon could not help uniting in the chorus. Never had tragic hero suffered a more comical discomfiture.

He was now permitted to withdraw from the scene of it, a permission of which he availed himself without further delay; first retreating for some distance along the Sh.e.l.l Road, as one wandering and distraught; then, as if seized by a sudden thought, diving into the timbered swamp alongside, and there disappearing.

Soon after the carriage containing the victorious party rattled past; they inside it scarce casting a look to see what had become of Santander. He was nothing to them now, at best only a thing to be a matter of ludicrous remembrance. Nor long remained he in their thoughts; these now reverting to Texas, and their necessity for hastening back to the Crescent City, to make start for "The Land of the Lone Star."

CHAPTER NINE.

A SPARTAN BAND.

In ancient days Sparta had its Thermopylae, while in those of modern date Sicily saw a thousand men in scarlet s.h.i.+rts make landing upon her coast, and conquer a kingdom defended by a military force twenty or thirty times their number!

But deeds of heroism are not alone confined to the history of the Old World. That of the New presents us with many pages of a similar kind, and Texas can tell of achievements not surpa.s.sed, either in valour or chivalry, by any upon record. Such was the battle of San Jacinto, where the Texans were victorious, though overmatched in the proportion of ten to one: such the defence of Fort Alamo, when the brave Colonel Crockett, now world-known, surrendered up his life, alongside the equally brave "Jim Bowie," he who gave his name to the knife which on that occasion he so efficiently wielded--after a protracted and terrible struggle dropping dead upon a heap of foes who had felt its sharp point and keen edge.

Among the deeds of great renown done by the defenders of the young Republic, none may take higher rank, since none is ent.i.tled to it, than that known as the battle of Mier. Though they there lost the day--a defeat due to the incapacity of an ill-chosen leader--they won glory eternal. Every man of them who fell had first killed his foeman--some half a score--while of those who survived there was not one so craven as to cry "Quarter!" The white flag went not up till they were overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer disparity of numbers.

It was a fight at first with rifles and musketry at long range; then closer as the hostile host came crowding in upon them; the bullets sent through windows and loopholed walls--some from the flat parapetted roofs of the houses--till at length it became a conflict hand to hand with knife, sword, and pistol, or guns clubbed--being empty, with no time to reload them--many a Texan braining one antagonist with the b.u.t.t of his piece after having sent its bullet through the body of another!

Vain all! Brute strength, represented by superior numbers, triumphed over warlike prowess, backed by indomitable courage; and the "Mier Expedition," from which Texas had expected so much, ended disastrously, though ingloriously; those who survived being made prisoners, and carried off to the capital of Mexico.

Of the Volunteer Corps which composed this ill-fated expedition--and they were indeed all volunteers--none gave better account of itself than that organised in Poydras Street, New Orleans, and among its individual members no man behaved better than he whom they had chosen as their leader. Florence Kearney had justified their choice, and proved true to the trust, as all who outlived that fatal day ever after admitted.

Fortunately, he himself was among the survivors; by a like good luck, so too were his first-lieutenant Crittenden and Cris Rock. As at "Fanning's Ma.s.sacre," so at Mier the gigantic Texan performed prodigies of valour, laying around him, and slaying on all sides, till at length wounded and disabled, like a lion beset by a _chevaux-de-frise_ of Caffre a.s.segais, he was compelled to submit. Fighting side by side, with the man he had first taken a fancy to on the Levee of New Orleans, and afterwards became instrumental in making captain of his corps-- finding this man to be what he had conjecturally believed and p.r.o.nounced him--of the "true grit"--Cris Rock now felt for Florence Kearney almost the affection of a father, combined with the grand respect which one gallant soul is ever ready to pay another. Devotion, too, so strong and real, that had the young Irishman called upon him for the greatest risk of his life, in any good or honourable cause, he would have responded to the call without a moment's hesitancy or murmur. Nay, more than risk; he would have laid it down, absolutely, to save that of his cherished leader.

Proof of this was, in point of fact, afforded but a short while after.

Any one acquainted with Texan history will remember how the Mier prisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon their guards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around.

This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by the terrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added to many insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not only by the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. These had grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.

It brought about the crisis for a long time acc.u.mulating, and which the Texans antic.i.p.ated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them, talked over and perfected a plan of escape.

By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelessly lounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, a signal shout was heard.

"Now, boys, up and at them!" were the words, with some others following, which all well understood--almost a repet.i.tion of the famous order of Wellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it the Texans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them their weapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formed ranks of the enemy out into the open country.

So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, it proved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force--fresh troops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the late escort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation and defeat--the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they were entire strangers--a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and, worse still, without water,--not strange that all, or nearly all, of them were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.

Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for little better than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exulting fiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that all were to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. No doubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and our hero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more have been heard of; in other words, the novel of the "Free Lances" would not have been written. But among those reckless avengers there were some who knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was "a far cry to Loch Awe," all knew; the Highland loch typified not by Texas, but the United States. But the more knowing ones always knew that, however far, the cry might be heard, and then what the result? No mere band of Texan filibusters, ill-organised, and but poorly equipped, to come across the Rio Grande; instead a well-disciplined army in numbers enough for sure retaliation, bearing the banner of the "Stars and Stripes."

In fine, a more merciful course was determined upon; only _decimation_ of the prisoners--every tenth man to suffer death.

There was no word about degrees in their guiltiness--all were alike in this respect--and the fate of each was to be dependent on pure blind chance.

When the retaken escapadoes had been brought back to El Salado, they were drawn up in line of single file, and carefully counted. A helmet, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the head of one of the Dragoons guarding them, was made use of as a ballot-box. Into this were thrown a number of what we call French or kidney beans--the _pijoles_ of Mexico--in count corresponding to that of the devoted victims. Of these _pijoles_ there are several varieties, distinguishable chiefly by their colour. Two sorts are common, the black and white; and these were chosen to serve as tickets in that dread lottery of life and death. For every nine white beans there was a black one; he who drew black would be shot within the hour!

Into the hard soldier's head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, the beans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now write of it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history of human kind has there been a grander exhibition of man's courage than was that day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of no particular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texans were of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, French, and Germans--even some who spoke Spanish, the language of their captors, now their judges, and about to become their executioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carried round, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear or hesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what they should bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of their fate. Many laughed and made laughter among their comrades, by some quaint _jeu d'esprit_. One reckless fellow--no other than Cris Rock--as he fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud--

"Wal, boys, I guess it's the tallest gamblin' I've ever took a hand at.

But this child ain't afeerd. I was born to good luck, an' am not likely to go under--jest yet."

The event justified his confidence, as he drew _blank_--not _black_, the fatal colour.

It was now Kearney's turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, without flinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when the Texan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.

"No, Cap!" he exclaimed; "I'm wownded, putty bad, as ye see,"--(he had received a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)--"an' mayent git over it. Thurfor, your life's worth more'n mine. Besides, my luck's good jest now. So let me take your chance. That's allowed, as these skunks hev sayed themselves."

So it was--a declaration having been made by the officer who presided over the drawing--from humane motives as pretended--that any one who could find a subst.i.tute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery it seemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than one courageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend--in the case of two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.

Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, Florence Kearney was not the man to avail himself of it.

"Thanks, brave comrade!" he said, with warmth, detaching his hand from the Texan's grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. "What's left of your life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good as yours--we'll see."

It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as they saw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.

"Thanks to the Almighty!" joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out the colour. "Both o' us clar o' that sc.r.a.pe, by Job! An' as there ain't no need for me dyin' yet, I mean to live it out, an' git well agin."

And get well he did, despite the long after march, with all its exposures and fatigues; his health and strength being completely restored as he stepped over the threshold, entering within his prison-cell in the city of Mexico.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE ACORDADA.

One of the most noted "lions" in the City of Mexico is the prison called La Acordada. Few strangers visit the Mexican capital without also paying a visit to this celebrated penal establishment, and few who enter its gloomy portals issue forth from them without having seen something to sadden the heart, and be ever afterwards remembered with repugnance and pain.

There is, perhaps, no prison in the universal world where one may witness so many, and such a variety of criminals; since there is no crime known to the calendar that has not been committed by some one of the gaol-birds of the Acordada.

Its cells, or cloisters--for the building was once a monastery--are usually well filled with thieves, forgers, ravishers, highway robbers, and a fair admixture of murderers; none appearing cowed or repentant, but boldly brazening it out, and even boasting of their deeds of villainy, fierce and strong as when doing them, save the disabled ones, who suffer from wounds or some loathsome disease.

Nor is all their criminal action suspended inside the prison walls. It is carried on within their cells, and still more frequently in the courtyards of the ancient convent, where they are permitted to meet in common and spend a considerable portion of their time. Here they may be seen in groups, most of them ragged and greasy, squatted on the flags, card-playing--and cheating when they can--now and then quarrelling, but always talking loud and cursing.

Into the midst of this ma.s.s of degraded humanity were thrust two of the unfortunate prisoners, taken at the battle of Mier--the two with whom our tale has alone to do.

For reasons that need not be told, most of the captives were excepted from this degradation; the main body of them being carried on through the city to the pleasant suburban village of Tacubaya.

But Florence Kearney and Cris Rock were not among the exceptions; both having been consigned to the horrid pandemonium we have painted.