Chapter Eighteen.
A Brush with the Guerilleros
“Why, what was the matter, Major?” inquired I, as the major rode up blowing like a porpoise.
“Matter!” replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; “matter, indeed! You wouldn’t have me ride plump into their works, would you?”
“Works!” echoed I, in some surprise; “what do you mean by that, Major?”
“I mean works – that’s all. There’s a stockade ten feet high, as full as it can stick of them.”
“Full of what?”
“Full of the enemy – full of rancheros. I saw their ugly copper faces – a dozen of them at least – looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like a target.”
“But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros – cow-herds – nothing more.”
“Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a sword apiece strapped to their saddles. I saw them when I got near: they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade – I’ll bet my life upon it!”
“Well, Major,” rejoined I, “they’re far enough from the stockade now; and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed.”
Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the rear.
We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more than a regular corral, such as are found on the great haciendas de ganados (cattle farms) of Spanish America. In one corner was a house, constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves. This contained the lazos, alparejas, saddles, etcetera, of the vaqueros; and in the door of this house stood a decrepit old zambo, the only human thing about the place. The zambo’s woolly head over the pickets had reflected itself a dozen times on the major’s terrified imagination.
After examining the corral, I found it excellent for our purpose, provided we could only succeed in driving the mules into it; and, throwing open the bars, we proceeded to make the attempt. The mules were browsing quietly at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the corral.
Marching past the drove, I deployed the company in the form of a semicircle, forming a complete cordon round the animals; then, closing in upon them slowly, the soldiers commenced driving them towards the pen.
We were somewhat awkward at this new duty; but by means of a shower of small rocks, pieces of bois de vache, and an occasional “heigh, heigh!” the mules were soon in motion and in the required direction.
The major, with Doc and little Jack, being the mounted men of the party, did great service, especially Jack, who was highly delighted with this kind of thing, and kept Twidget in a constant gallop from right to left.
As the mulado neared the gates of the inclosure, the two extremes of the semi-circumference gradually approached each other, closing in toward the corral.
The mules were already within fifty paces of the entrance, the soldiers coming up about two hundred yards in the rear, when a noise like the tramping of many hoofs arrested our attention. The quick, sharp note of a cavalry bugle rang out across the plain, followed by a wild yell, as though a band of Indian warriors were sweeping down upon the foe.
In an instant every eye was turned, and we beheld with consternation a cloud of horsemen springing out from the woods, and dashing along in the headlong velocity of a charge.
It required but a single glance to satisfy me that they were guerilleros. Their picturesque attire, their peculiar arms, and the parti-coloured bannerets upon their lances were not to be mistaken.
We stood for a moment as if thunderstruck; a sharp cry rose along the deployed line.
I signalled to the bugler, who gave the command, “Rally upon the centre!”
As if by one impulse, the whole line closed in with a run upon the gates of the inclosure. The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance.
On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched, shouting their wild cries:
“Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees!” (Forward! forward! Death to the Yankees!)
The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded mules, pricking them with bayonets. The animals began to kick and plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front.
“Face about – fire!” I commanded at this moment.
An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and were swooping down with cries of vengeance. A dozen of their bravest men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols as they came down.
Our position had now grown fearfully critical. The mules still blocked up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy of the enemy’s lances.
Seizing the major’s servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse, and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear. Half a dozen of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry charge on the short bayonets of their rifles. Their pieces were all empty!
At this moment my eye rested on one of the soldiers, a brave but slow-footed German, who was still twenty paces in the rear of his comrades, making every effort to come up. Two of the guerilleros were rushing upon him with couched lances. I galloped out to his rescue; but before I could reach him the lance of the foremost Mexican crashed through the soldier’s skull, shivering it like a shell. The barb and bloody pennon came out on the opposite side. The man was lifted from the ground, and carried several paces upon the shaft of the lance.
The guerillero dropped his entangled weapon; but before he could draw any other, the sword of Victoria was through his heart.
His comrade turned upon me with a cry of vengeance. I had not yet disengaged my weapon to ward off the thrust. The lance’s point was within three feet of my breast, when a sharp crack was heard from behind; the lancer threw out his arms with a spasmodic jerk; his long spear was whirled into the air, and he fell back in his saddle, dead.
“Well done, Jack! fire and scissors! who showed yer that trick? whooray! whoop!” and I heard the voice of Lincoln, in a sort of Indian yell, rising high above the din.
At this moment a guerillo, mounted upon a powerful black mustang, came galloping down. This man, unlike most of his comrades, was armed with the sabre, which he evidently wielded with great dexterity. He came dashing on, his white teeth set in a fierce smile.
“Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine,” shouted he, as he came near, “still alive? I thought I had finished you on Lobos; not too late yet!”
I recognised the deserter, Dubrosc!
“Villain!” I ejaculated, too full of rage to utter another word.
We met at full speedy but with my unmanageable horse I could only ward off his blow as he swept past me. We wheeled again, and galloped towards each other – both of us impelled by hatred; but my horse again shied, frightened by the gleaming sabre of my antagonist. Before I could rein him round, he had brought me close to the pickets of the corral; and on turning to meet the deserter, I found that we were separated by a band of dark objects.
It was a detachment of mules that had backed from the gates of the corral and were escaping to the open plain. We reined up, eyeing each other with impatient vengeance; but the bullets of my men began to whistle from the pickets; and Dubrosc, with a threatening gesture, wheeled his horse and galloped off to his comrades. They had retired beyond range, and were halted in groups upon the prairie, chafing with disappointment and rage.
Chapter Nineteen.
A Herculean Feat
The whole skirmish did not occupy two minutes. It was like most charges of Mexican cavalry – a dash, a wild yelling, half a dozen empty saddles, and a hasty retreat.
The guerilleros had swerved off as soon as they perceived that we had gained a safe position, and the bullets of our reloaded pieces began to whistle around their ears. Dubrosc alone, in his impetuosity, galloped close up to the inclosure; and it was only on perceiving himself alone, and the folly of exposing himself thus fruitlessly, that he wheeled round and followed the Mexicans. The latter were now out upon the prairie, beyond the range of small-arms, grouped around their wounded comrades, or galloping to and fro, with yells of disappointed vengeance.
I entered the corral, where most of my men had sheltered themselves behind the stockades. Little Jack sat upon Twidget, reloading his rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy.
“Thank you, Jack,” said I, as I passed him; “I see you can use a rifle to some purpose.”
Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very busy about the lock of his piece.
In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his short bayonet through his antagonist’s arm, and sent him off with this member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:
“Yer darned skunk! I’ll know yer agin. See if I don’t git yer yit!”
Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire.
The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo.
As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules.
“Good heavens! the Major!”
“Safe somewhere,” replied Clayley; “but where the deuce can he be? He is not hors de combat on the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off. Ha! ha! ha! – look yonder!”
Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.
Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth. Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might. The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension. He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the “other side of the fence.”
The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral.
His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear. He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths.
Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules. The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air. The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse.
After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh. His pursuers, coming up, flung out their lazos. Two of these, settling over his head, noosed him around the neck. The huge brute, as if aware of the necessity of a desperate effort to free himself, dropped his nose to the ground, and stretched himself out in full gallop.
The lariats, one by one tightening over his bony chest, snapped like threads, almost jerking the mustangs from their feet. The long fragments sailed out like streamers as he careered across the prairie, far ahead of his yelling pursuers.
He now made directly for the corral. Several of the soldiers ran towards the stockade, in order to seize the bridle when he should come up; but Hercules, spying his old comrade – the horse of the “Doctor” – within the inclosure, first neighed loudly, and then, throwing all his nerve into the effort, sprang high over the picket fence.
A cheer rose from the men, who had watched with interest his efforts to escape, and who now welcomed him as if he had been one of themselves.
“Two months’ pay for your horse, Major!” cried Clayley.
“Och, the bewtiful baste! He’s worth the full of his skin in goold! By my sowl! the capten ought to have ’im,” ejaculated Chane; and various other encomiums were uttered in honour of Hercules.
Meanwhile, his pursuers, not daring to approach the stockade, drew off towards their comrades with gestures of disappointment and chagrin.
Chapter Twenty.
Running the Gauntlet
I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation – corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men – lancers at that – and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof!
The nearest motte was half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege.
To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive.
As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders.
“Well, Sergeant, what is it?” I inquired.
“Will yer allow me, Cap’n, ter take a couple o’ files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men ’ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin’ robbers kin git at him.”
“Certainly. But will you be safe? He’s at some distance from the stockade.”
“I don’t think them fellers ’ll kum down – they’ve had enuf o’ it just now. We’ll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire.”
“Very well, then; set about it.”
Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles.
The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its “warrior grave”, dragged forth to feed the coyoté and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate?
“Gentlemen,” said I to my brother officers, as we came together, “can you suggest any mode of escape?”
“Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one,” replied Clayey.
“We have no other chance, Captain,” said Oakes, with a shake of the head.
“But it is not their intention to fight us. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure.”
“Cannot we move in a hollow square?”
“But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief.”
“And why not send for it?” inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. “Why not send for a couple of regiments?”
“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”
“Why? – how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”
“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”
The last sentence I muttered to myself.
“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.
“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”
I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.
“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.
Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.
“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.
The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.
“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”
“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”
I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.
“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.
“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”
“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”
“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”
“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”
“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”
“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs – so – cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”
I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper: —
“Dear Colonel,
“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well – if it gets abroad…
“Yours,
“H.H.”
As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear —
“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul – privately, do you hear?”
Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send a private party to my rescue.
“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.
“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”
The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.
For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.
Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.
They now perceived the ruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.
Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.
We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense – of terrible suspense – for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:
“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”
It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.
Note. A motte is an eminence.