CHAPTER XIII
A BUCCANEER AND A BATTLE
"The inclination to goodness is imprinted deeply in the nature of man." --_Bacon._
But the paltry nine thousand were the best army of Mexicans ever yetgathered together. For weeks they kept more than thirty thousandRepublicans out of an unwalled, almost an unfortified town. But whilethe Republicans were largely _chinacos_, or raw soldiery, theyinside were trained men. There were the Cazadores, a Mexican edition ofthe Chasseurs, organized by Bazaine under French drill masters. Therewas Mendez's seasoned brigade. There was Arellano's artillery, thoughnumbering only fifty pieces. There were the crack Dragoons of theEmpress, the Austro-Mexican Hussars, and a squadron of the MunicipalGuards. There were veterans who had fought at Cerro Gordo, and steadilyever since in the civil wars. There was the ancient Battalion de Celaya,mainstay of the Spanish viceroys, and later of the Emperor Iturbide, itscolonel. There were the Battalion del Emperador, the Tiradores de laFrontera, a company of engineers, and several well-disciplined regimentsof the line.
But the day came when they began to starve, and being hungry took theheart out of many things. It took the heart out of bombarding Escobedoin his hillside adobe; out of taunting "uncouth rebels." The rebels werein trenches often not a street's width distant, and for reply theypointed to certain dangling acorns who had been "traitors" caughtslipping through the lines. Being hungry took the heart out of thequick-time diana, played after a brilliant sortie. Out of the embraceMaximilian gave Miramon. Out of Miramon's call for vivas for His Majestythe Emperor. Out of standard decorating and promotions and thrillingwords of praise. Out of the anniversary of Maximilian's acceptance ofthe throne. Out of a medal presentation for military merit, which thegenerals bestowed on their Emperor in the name of the army. Out of beingmade a caballero of the Order of Guadalupe, especially as the monarchcould give only a ribbon, since the cross must wait until his return tothe capital. And being hungry certainly made pathetic his predictionthat some among those present would one day wear the medal fortwenty-five years of faithful service to the Empire. Being hungry tookthe poet-hero's glow out of his wan cheek as he declared again that he,a Hapsburg, would never desert, for even then he heard Imperialistplatoons shooting recaptured deserters. Or he thought of the woundedleft to die on the grassy plain and lying there unburied. No, all theheart was being taken out of these things, for Marquez still did notcome with the help he had gone to bring, and the noose was tighteningday by day. Attempts were made to send some one through to deposeMarquez, but each one failed. Splendid sallies resulted in prisonerstaken, which were only so many more mouths to feed. The Roman aqueducthad long since been cut off, and now the wells were giving out. Mulesand horses drank at the river, while sharpshooters picked them off. Thefeebler animals were butchered and distributed as rations. And still thesorry Marquez gave no sign. Even hope failed the empty stomachs.
But for those who waited outside as Vengeance enthroned, expectationbegan to take on a creepy quality. The besiegers were preparing againstthemselves a host, not of men, but of frightful spectres, of famishedmaniacs, of unearthly ghouls, who would clutch and tear with claws anyman that stood between them and a morsel of food. And the fury ofdesperation sharpened with each succeeding irony of a dinner hour.
The siege had endured six weeks. Marquez had been gone a month. But theRepublicans held ready for whatever force he might bring. Their key tothe situation was the Cimatario, the highest hill on the south. Betweenit and the wooded Alameda stretched the grassy plain. Republicantrenches from base to shoulder of the peak opposed Imperialist trenchesunder the Alameda trees. Republican troops flanked the Cimatario oneither side, lying in wait for Marquez. On one side Driscoll's Graysguarded the Celaya road.
So here they were sleeping encamped on the morning of April 27, when thebugle of a patrol cracked their slumbers. They lay booted and spurred. Amoment later they were horsed as well, blinking across the plain in thepearly mist of dawn. They had heard hoofbeats, sharp and dry on the hightableland. Now they saw a wild, shadowy troop, which was hotly pursuinga spectral coach of gossamer wheels, with six plunging mules franticallylashed by outriders. At once, almost, the coach was lost among the dimstrangers, who snatched at flying ends of harness, and with their prizeraced on again.
The Grays stared. It was like some pictured hold-up, not real. But theyknew better when from among themselves a colossal yellow horse and riderdashed toward the road. Then they awoke for certain, and tore aftertheir colonel to solve this ashen mystery so early in the morning. Wasit Marquez, perhaps? But the coach white with dust, and white curtainsflapping, what was that?
Striking their flank at an angle, Driscoll drove hard into the fleeinghorde. The Grays saw his hand raise as a signal, whereat they did notclose in, but swerved and galloped parallel, some fifty paces distant.Driscoll struggled alone against the heaving sea about him. But nocut-throat of that pirate mass so much as drew a knife. By force ofbrawn, he wedged his way toward the coach, reached it, leaned forward,and caught up the curtain. And what he saw was a poke bonnet. The bonnetwas a bower of lace and roses, held by a filmy saucy knot under a lady'schin. He saw a face framed within, of a skin creamy white, of lipsblood-red, of hair like copper, and he saw a pair of eyes. They weregray eyes, and as they opened suddenly and wider upon him whom shethought must be her captor, the lady started violently, her cheeksaflame. But at once the eyes snapped as in mockery, and her lips moved.
"Monsieur permits himself----" she began, but no one heard except herterrified companion within the coach. Driscoll had already dropped thecurtain as a thing that burned, and was raging on again with theturbulent stream. He got to the leader of the band, and jerked thefellow's bridle. He raised his voice, and louder than the pounding ofhoofs he cursed in wrathful disgust.
"Dam' you Rod, this here's getting monotonous!"
The man swung in his saddle. His eyes were black-browed and savage. Hewas Rodrigo Galan, the terrible Don Rodrigo. But shabby, how very shabbyhe looked for the thief of million dollar convoys! Yet that bonanza coupof the bullion train had happened two years ago. Since then the outlawhad visited the capital. Boldly, audaciously, he had gone as a richhacendado, and after the manner of rich hacendados he had "seen theCity." Mozos with gorged canvas bags on their shoulders had followed hisstately stride into the gambling casinos. He had played with regalnerve, and on the last occasion, had flung the emptied sacks away asnonchalantly as on the first. Only, the last time, he had felt remorsethat the "bank" had profited instead of Tiburcio. In that matter of thebullion convoy he had not treated Don Tiburcio as one caballero shouldanother.
Their horses--Rodrigo's and Driscoll's--were racing by bounds shoulderto shoulder. This endured for possibly the space of a second. ThenDemijohn felt his rein tighten, and he took more time. Next his bitsuddenly pinched, and down the old fellow came upon his front feettogether, firmly planted, and sank to his haunches. Driscoll still heldRodrigo's bridle, and Rodrigo and horse, being in air, lunged backward.
"We stop here," Driscoll announced.
Don Rodrigo plumped down heavily in his saddle. His bristling moustachelifted over his cruel white teeth. Two hundred swarthy little demonsreining in around them looked expectantly for a signal. But their chieffrowned at the twelve hundred Gringo Grays hovering on his flank. Theytoo wanted only a sign, and they outnumbered the Brigand's six to one.But Rodrigo believed he held the advantage. First he obediently haltedhimself and his minions.
"Now then senor," said he in pompous and heavy syllables, "I am at yourdisposition. Will your people commence the battle, or shall we?"
Driscoll appreciated the dilemma. The carriage would be in the line offire. He had had an intuition of its occupants, and for that reason hadkept back his men.
"Where was she going?" he demanded.
Rodrigo feigned surprise. "And where," he asked, "or rather, to whom,should Your Mercy imagine?"
To Queretero! To Maximilian,
of course! This, too, Driscoll had divinedalready.
"No matter," he retorted shortly, "but how did you run across her thistime?"
The outlaw filled his chest, "You Americans, senor, do not understandthe feelings of a man bowed under a heavy wrong. You----"
"We'll let it go at that," said Driscoll, with a little wave of thehand, "but--how in----"
"You scoff already, senor? But will you, at these stains of blood? Thenlet me say to you, senor mio, they make me remember one shameless deedfor which the tyrant Maximilian must pay."
The stains Rodrigo meant were on a little ivory cross which he had takenfrom his jacket. The emblem served him to lash his emotions, to goad hisprecious sense of wrong. He studied the cross intently; then, by a vastand excruciating effort, thrust it into Driscoll's hand.
"Yes, yes," he cried, "you must take it! He said so."
"He?"
"Si, senor, he who shares my wrong, Don Anastasio Murguia."
"Murgie!" exclaimed the bewildered American. "But--why, hombre, Ihaven't seen the old skinflint since--since he and I both werecourt-martialled by Lopez!"
"Still I promised him to send the cross to you, because you will have achance to give it to him. He said so."
"Oh, he did?" But Driscoll put the trinket in his pocket, not unwillingto see more of this foolish drama in Latin-American sentiment. "Nowthen, Rod," he went on impatiently, "you haven't explained yet how youhappen to find her again."
"That," replied the outlaw, "was _his_ part of the bargain."
"Whose?"
"Anastasio Murguia's."
"Rod, you talk like a----"
"But no, senor, it's because you Americans cannot understand. Murguiaalso believes in vengeance. I haven't seen him either, not since he soldhis hacienda over a year ago. But I do know that he or some spy of hisis in the capital, for a messenger from him came to me in the mountains.The messenger said that the Marquesa d'Aumerle was leaving forQueretero. If I captured her, it would be vengeance in kind. But Murguiawanted pay for his information. He wanted that cross--it was hisdaughter's--and I was to send it to him through you. Dios mio, but I hadto hurry! A little more, and the Marquesa would have been inside yourlines."
"She is already," Driscoll corrected him, "and so are you. Will youfight it out, or surrender?"
He pointed to the Grays as he spoke. They had dismounted, and each manhad a rifle at aim across his saddle. It was a reminiscence out ofDriscoll's boyhood of Indians and the Santa Fe trail. But Don Rodrigoonly smiled.
"You want the coach first?" he said.
"No!" Driscoll retorted. "You're the one that's wanted, and you caneither wait for your trial, or be shot now, fighting. The coach willhave to take its chances. But see here, if the firing once starts, not athief among you will be left standing----"
It was a perilous "bluff," and none might say if it would have brokenthe deadlock. But the outlaw interrupted.
"Listen! What's that?"
"Oh, nothing. We're only throwing a few bombs into Queretero."
"Only!" The brigand's eyes flashed, and his voice was filled with envy.Throwing bombs among the traitors?--and magnificence like that had growncommon! Yet he, whose patriotism was a passion that fed and thrived uponitself, must be barred from such exquisite satiety.
Driscoll understood, and thought it droll. First there was that loyalImperialist, Don Tiburcio, frothing chagrin because he had had todesert. And now here was this rabid Republican, heart broken over beingoutlawed from the ranks of his country's avengers.
Again Rodrigo interrupted, more excitedly yet. "Senor, senor, you don'tshoot them that way every day? What does it mean?"
Both gazed across the plain to the city of domes under the green hills.Driscoll's chin raised, and he listened intently. What had commencedlike indolent target practice against a beleaguered town had suddenlyburst into a terrific cannonading chorus. More, there was musketry,vicious and sustained. There were troops deploying over the plain.Something critical was happening. If it were the supreme rally of thefamishing Empire!
Driscoll stirred uneasily. He glanced at his outlaw. He thought of thecoach. To leave her with these ruffians? To miss a fight? Here was aquandary!
"You are not going?" Rodrigo cried at him furiously. "Now, now," heraged, "is the hour of triumph for the incarnation of popularsovereignty. Go, I say, go, the Republic needs you!"
Until those words Rodrigo had held the situation. With them he lost it,and Driscoll was master. And Driscoll grew serene, and very sweet ofmanner. He began filling a cob pipe. A nod of his head indicated thecoach as a condition of his going.
"Look, look!" Rodrigo shouted. "Oh, que viva--they're running! We'vesmoked them out! We've smoked them out!"
Driscoll swept the country with his glasses. Thousands of men wererunning like frightened rabbits down the Cimatario slope, and spreadingas a fan over the grassy plain. Mountain pieces boomed farewell behindthem, until in abject panic they cast away carbines and scrambled thefaster. But other troops were pushing up the slope opposite the town,and these were ordered ranks of infantry. Up and up they climbed, totrench after trench, and the howitzers one by one stopped short theirroar. When Driscoll laid down the glasses, his face was white. Rodrigo'sglee turned to uncertainty.
"What--what----"
"Smoked out, you fool? We're the ones smoked out!"
"But those runaways?"
"Are our own men, ten thousand of 'em, raw conscripts to support ourbatteries on the Cimatario."
"But the Cimitario?" Rodrigo knew by instinct the crucial importance ofthe black cone.
"The Cimitario is taken by the Imperialists!"
Driscoll did not forget, however, the nearer contest, and as the Mexicangrew frantic, he was the more coolly indifferent.
"Max has everything his own way now," he added soothingly. "He caneither evacuate, or go around on the north side and thrash Escobedo."
But the Grays were clamoring for action. "By cracken, Din, hurry upthere!" yelled Cal Grinders.
Driscoll raised his palm, waving the fingers for patience. He scannedthe plain again. The Imperialist ranks were breaking. Hungry men rushedon the besiegers' camps, snatching untouched breakfasts. The townsmenpoured out among the uniforms, and darted greedily in every direction.The llano was alive with scurrying human beings. Driscoll could wellwait for the psychology of Republican defeat on Don Rodrigo, since atthe same time he awaited the effects of victory on a starving army. TheGrays fretted, but they knew their colonel was never more to be dependedupon than when his blood grew cold like this.
"If," Driscoll observed pleasantly to the Mexican, "Escobedo isn'talready making tracks for San Luis----"
It was the last straw. The patriot brigand jerked off his sombrero andflung it to the ground. He gestured wildly over the plain, and hegestured in the American's face. He choked on words that boiled up toofast.
"You--you--traitor!" he spluttered. There was actually froth on hislips.
"We haven't," Driscoll reminded him with exceeding gentleness, "settledthis other yet," and again he nodded to the coach.
"That--that is why you wait?" Rodrigo had forgotten his prize entirely."Take her, then, take her! Only go, go, kill all the traitors!"
"After you, caballero," Driscoll returned with Mexican politeness. Hewanted to be sure of the outlaw's departure, since holding him prisonerwas now out of the question. But Rodrigo chafed only to be gone. With areed whistle he signaled his little demon centaurs, then at a touch ofthe spurs his horse leaped forward and all the band clattered close onhis heels.
"Sure anxious to escape," thought Driscoll. But he stared after them inwonder. Instead of turning to the safety of the mountains, they chargedstraight ahead on the town, straight against the Empire, and in anycase, straight into the maw of justice. Behind, the coach and mulesstood high and dry in the road. Driscoll was at once all action.
"Shanks," he called.
Mr. Boone hurried to him from the Grays.
"Shanks, will yo
u stay here with six men----"
"Jack Driscoll!"
"To watch that coach, Dan. There's two girls in it."
"Jack! Miss that there fight!"
"But Dan, _these_ girls are friends of yours, you met them once."
Mr. Boone started violently.
"Never mind, I'll ask Rube Marmaduke or the Parson."
A pitiful struggle racked Mr. Boone.
"You, you're not fooling me, Din?" he pleaded.
"Sure not. It's your empress all right. It's Miss Burt all right."
"Then, Lawd help me, I'll stay!--But you'd best be hustling and get towork."
"Just a minute, Shanks, there's the other one in the coach. She wants togo to Queretero. If she gives her word of honor--never mind, she knowshonor from a man's standpoint--if she gives her word that she bringsnothing that will help 'em inside, then you can escort the coach intothe town after things quiet down some. All right? Good. Then we're off!"
Demijohn's hoofs pelted dust balls with each impact. The Grays wereready. They surged behind. The sound of them was a swishing roar. In theapex of the blinding tempest, Driscoll sat his saddle as unmoved as anengineer in his cab. He looked ahead placidly. Empire and a prince hadjust triumphed. So he was going to readjust fatality. The smile touchedhis lips as it never had before, and hovered there in the midst ofbattle.
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