The Rifle Rangers

by Reid, Mayne

  The view is open, for thevalu is almost treeless. The scene is no longer wild. The earth has a cultivated aspect-an aspect of civilisation: for these high plateaux-the tierras templadas -are the seat of Mexican civilisation. Here are the towns-the great cities, with their rich cathedrals and convents-here dwells the bulk of the population. Here the rancho is built of unburnt bricks ( adobe's )-a mud cabin, often inclosed by hedges of the columnar cactus. Here are whole villages of such huts, inhabited by the dark-skinned descendants of the ancient Aztecs.

  Fertile fields are around me. I behold the maguey of culture (Agave Americana ), in all its giant proportions. The lance-like blades of the zea maize wave with a rich rustling in the breeze, for here that beautiful plant grows in its greatest luxuriance. Immense plains are covered with wheat, with capsicum, and the Spanish bean (frijoles ). My eyes are gladdened by the sight of roses climbing along the wall or twining the portal. Here, too, the potato (Solanum tuberosum) flourishes in its native soil; the pear and the pomegranate, the quince and the apple, are seen in the orchard; and the cereals of the temperate zone grow side by side with theCucurbitacece of the tropics.

  I pass from onevalu into another, by crossing a low ridge of the dividing mountains. Mark the change! A surface of green is before me, reaching on all sides to the mountain foot; and upon this roam countless herds, tended by mounted "vaqueros" (herdsmen).

  I pass another ridge, and anothervalid stretches before me. Again a change! A desert of sand, over the surface of which move tall dun columns of swirling dust, like the gigantic phantoms of some spirit-world. I look into another valle , and behold shining waters- lakes like inland seas-with sedgy shores and surrounded by green savannas, and vast swamps covered with reeds and "tulares" (bulrush).

  Still another plain, black with lava and the scoriae of extinct volcanoes-black, treeless, and herbless-with not an atom of organic matter upon its desolate surface.

  Such are the features of the plateau-land-varied, and vast, and full of wild interest.

  I leave it and climb higher-nearer to the sky-up the steep sides of the Cordilleras-up to thetierra fria .

  * * *

  I stand ten thousand feet above the level of the ocean. I am under the deep shadows of a forest. Huge trunks grow around me, hindering a distant view. Where am I? Not in the tropic, surely, for these trees are of a northernsylva . I recognise the gnarled limbs and lobed leaves of the oak, the silvery branches of the mountain-ash, the cones and needles of the pine. The wind, as it swirls among the dead leaves, causes me to shiver; and high up among the twigs there is the music of winter in its moaning. Yet I am in the torrid zone; and the same sun that now glances coldly through the boughs of the oak, but a few hours before scorched me as it glistened from the fronds of the palm-tree.

  The forest opens, and I behold hills under culture-fields of hemp and flax, and the hardy cereals of the frigid zone. The rancho of the husbandman is a log cabin, with shingled roof and long projecting eaves, unlike the dwellings either of the greatvalus or the tierras calientes . I pass the smoking pits of the "carbonero", and I meet the "arriero" with his "atajo" of mules heavily laden with ice of the glaciers. They are passing with their cargoes, to cool the wine-cups in the great cities of the plains.

  Upward and upward! The oak is left behind, and the pine grows stunted and dwarfish. The wind blows colder and colder. A wintry aspect is around me.

  Upward still. The pine disappears. No vegetable form is seen save the mosses and lichens that cling to the rocks, as within the Arctic Circle. I am on the selvage of the snow-the eternal snow. I walk upon glaciers, and through their translucent mass I behold the lichens growing beneath.

  The scene is bleak and desolate, and I am chilled to the marrow of my bones.

  Excelsior! excelsior ! The highest point is not yet reached. Through drifts of snow and over fields of ice, up steep ledges, along the slippery escarpment that overhangs the giddy abysm, with wearied knees, and panting breath, and frozen fingers, onward and upward I go. Ha! I have won the goal. I am on the summit!

  I stand on the "cumbre" of Orizava-the mountain of the "burning star"- more than three miles above the ocean level. My face is turned to the east, and I look downward. The snow, the cincture of lichens and naked rocks, the dark belt of pines, the lighter foliage of the oaks, the fields of barley, the waving maize, the thickets of yucca and acacia trees, the palm forest, the shore, the sea itself with its azure waves- all these at a single vision! From the summit of Orizava to the shores of the Mexican Sea, I glance through every gradation of the thermal line. I am looking, as it were, from the pole to the equator!

  I am alone. My brain is giddy. My pulse vibrates irregularly, and my heart beats with an audible distinctness. I am oppressed with a sense of my own nothingness-an atom, almost invisible, upon the breast of the mighty earth.

  I gaze and listen. I see, but I hear not. Here is sight, but no sound. Around me reigns an awful stillness-the sublime silence of the Omnipotent, who alone is here.

  Hark! the silence is broken! Was it the rumbling of thunder? No. It was the crash of the falling avalanche. I tremble at its voice. It is the voice of the Invisible-the whisper of a God!

  I tremble and worship.

  * * *

  Reader, could you thus stand upon the summit of Orizava, and look down to the shores of the Mexican Gulf, you would have before you, as on a map, the scene of our "adventures."

  * * *

  Note 1. Anahuac is Mexico.

  Note 2. Jornada is a day's journey.

  Note 3. Pescador is a fisherman.

  Note 4. Vomito is yellow-fever.

  Note 5. Mexico is divided into three regions, known as the "hot" (caliente ), "temperate" (templada), and "cold" (fria).

  Note 6. Carbonero is charcoal-burner.

  Note 7. Arriero is mule-driver.

  * * *

  After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading to Orizava.

  This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz.

  After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge.

  With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out before us like a map.

  Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon the blue background of the sea.

  The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect at once southern and picturesque.

  Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with floating banners-the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain, waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs.

  Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened along the combing of the surf.

  To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef.

  Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms-the picket sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft, yielding sand-drift.

  It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps of the city, heret
ofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and glistened along the walls.

  Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the guard, "Centinela! alerte!" (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp challenge, "Quien viva?" (Who goes there?)

  Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women, was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor of the ball-room.

  It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.

  As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.

  "Look out!" cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.

  Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a twenty-four.

  The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.

  "Try it again!" cried one.

  "That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing.

  "More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested an officer.

  "Oysters, too-only think of it!" said Clayley.

  "Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the town!"

  This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.

  "There again!" cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the parapet.

  "A shell, by the powers!" exclaimed Hennessy. "Let it dhrop first, or it may dhrop on ye," he continued, as several officers were about to fling themselves on their faces.

  The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens.

  The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift.

  It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot.

  "It's big shooting for them to hit the hill!" exclaimed a young officer.

  The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the bursting of a cannon, was heard under our feet; the ground opened like an earthquake, and, amidst the whistling of the fragments, the sand was dashed into our faces.

  A cloud of dust hung for a moment above the spot. The moon at this instant reappeared, and as the dust slowly settled away, the mutilated body of the soldier was seen upon the brow of the hill, at the distance of twenty paces from his post.

  A low cheer reached us from Concepcion, the fort whence the shell had been projected.

  Chagrined at the occurrence, and mortified that it had been caused by our imprudence, we were turning to leave the hill, when the "whish" of a rocket attracted our attention.

  It rose from the chaparral, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the camp, and, before it had reached its culminating point, an answering signal shot up from the Puerto Nuevo.

  At the same instant a horseman dashed out of the thicket, and headed his horse at the steep sand-hills. After three or four desperate plunges, the fiery mustang gained the crest of the ridge upon which lay the remains of the dead soldier.

  Here the rider, seeing our party, suddenly reined up and balanced for a moment in the stirrup, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

  We, on the other hand, taking him for some officer of our own, and wondering who it could be galloping about at such an hour, stood silent and waiting.

  "By heavens, that's a Mexican!" muttered Twing, as the ranchero dress became apparent under a brighter beam of the moon.

  Before anyone could reply, the strange horseman wheeled sharply to the left, and drawing a pistol, fired it into our midst. Then spurring his wild horse, he galloped past us into a deep defile of the hills.

  "You're a set of Yankee fools!" he shouted back, as he reached the bottom of the dell.

  Half a dozen shots replied to the taunting speech; but the retreating object was beyond pistol range before our astonished party had recovered from their surprise at such an act of daring audacity.

  In a few minutes we could see both horse and rider near the walls of the city-a speck on the white plain; and shortly after we heard the grating hinges of the Puerto Nuevo, as the huge gate swung open to receive him. No one was hit by the shot of his pistol. Several could be heard gritting their teeth with mortification as we commenced descending the hill.

  "Did you know that voice, Captain?" whispered Clayley to me, as we returned to camp.

  "Yes."

  "You think it was-"

  "Dubrosc."

  * * *

  "Yur safe, Cap'n!" It was Lincoln's voice. Around me stood a dozen of the men, up to their waists. Little Jack, too, (his head and forage-cap just appearing above the surface of the water), stood with his eighteen inches of steel buried in the carcase of the dead reptile. I could not help smiling at the ludicrous picture.

  "Yes, safe," answered I, panting for breath; "safe-you came in good time, though!"

  "We heern yur shot, Cap'n," said Lincoln, "an' we guessed yur didn't shoot without somethin' ter shoot for; so I tuk half a dozen files and kim up."

  "You acted right, sergeant; but where are the-"

  I was looking towards the edge of the tank where I had last seen the girls. They had disappeared.

  "If yez mane the faymales," answered Chane, "they'revamosed through the threes. Be Saint Patrick, the black one's a thrump anyhow! She looks for all the world like them bewtiful crayoles of Dimmerary."

  Saying this, he turned suddenly round, and commenced driving his bayonet furiously into the dead cayman, exclaiming between the thrusts:

  "Och, ye divil! bad luck to yer ugly carcase! You're a nate-looking baste to interfere with a pair of illigant craythers! Be the crass! he's all shill, boys. Och, mother o' Moses! I can't find a saft spot in him!"

  We climbed out upon the parapet, and the soldiers commenced wiping their wet guns.

  Clayley appeared at this moment, filing round the pond at the head of the detachment. As I explained the adventure to the lieutenant, he laughed heartily.

  "By Jove! it will never do for a despatch," said he; "one killed on the side of the enemy, and on ours not a wound. There is one, however, who may be reported `badly scared'."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "Why, who but the bold Blossom?"

  "But where is he?"

  "Heaven only knows! The last I saw of him, he was screening himself behind an old ruin. I wouldn't think it strange if he was off to camp- that is, if he believes he can find his way back again."

  As Clayley said this, he burst into a loud yell of laughter.

  It was with difficulty I could restrain myself; for, looking in the direction indicated by the lieutenant, I saw a bright object, which I at once recognised as the major's face.

  He had drawn aside the broad plantain-leaves, and was peering cautiously through, with a look of the most ludicrous terror. His face only was visible, round and luminous, like the full moon; and, like her, too, variegated with light and shade, for fear had produced spots of white and purple over the surface of his capacious cheeks.

  As soon as the major saw how the "land lay", he came blowing and blustering through the bushes like an elephant; and it now became apparent that he carried his long sabre drawn and nourishing.

  "Bad luck, after all!" said he as he marched round the pond with a bold stride. "That's all-is it?" he continued, pointi
ng to the dead cayman. "Bah! I was in hopes we'd have a brush with the yellow-skins."

  "No, Major," said I, trying to look serious, "we are not so fortunate."

  "I have no doubt, however," said Clayley with a malicious wink, "but that we'll have them here in a squirrel's jump. They must have heard the report of our guns."

  A complete change became visible in the major's bearing. The point of his sabre dropped slowly to the ground, and the blue and white spots began to array themselves afresh on his great red cheeks.

  "Don't you think, Captain," said he, "we've gone far enough into the cursed country? There's no mules in it-I can certify there's not-not a single mule. Had we not better return to camp?"

  Before I could reply, an object appeared that drew our attention, and heightened the mosaic upon the major's cheeks.

  A man, strangely attired, was seen running down the slope towards the spot where we were standing.

  "Guerillas, by Jove!" exclaimed Clayley, in a voice of feigned terror; and he pointed to the scarlet sash which was twisted around the man's waist.

  The major looked round for some object where he might shelter himself in case of a skirmish. He was sidling behind a high point of the parapet, when the stranger rushed forward, and, throwing both arms about his neck, poured forth a perfect cataract of Spanish, in which the wordgracias (thanks) was of frequent occurrence.

  "What does the man mean with hisgrashes ?" exclaimed the major, struggling to free himself from the Mexican.

  But the latter did not hear him, for his eyes at that moment rested upon my dripping habiliments; and dropping the major, he transferred his embrace andgracias to me.

  "Senor Capitan," he said, still speaking in Spanish, and hugging me like a bear, "accept my thanks. Ah, sir! you have saved my children; how can I show you my gratitude?"

  Here followed a multitude of those complimentary expressions peculiar to the language of Cervantes, which ended by his offering me his house and all it contained.

  I bowed in acknowledgment of his courtesy, apologising for being so ill prepared to receive his "hug", as I observed that my saturated vestments had wet the old fellow to the skin.