The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid (short novels in english TXT) 📕
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- Author: Mayne Reid
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The ground was soon lined off—ten paces—and we took our stands, back to back. We were to wheel at the word “Ready!” and fire at “One, two, three!”
We were waiting for the word with that death-like silence which always precedes a similar signal, when Little Jack, who had been left with the carriages, rushed into a glade, calling with all his might:
“Captain! Captain!”
Every face was turned upon him with scowling inquiry, when the boy, gasping for breath, shouted out:
“The Mexicans are on the road!”
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the trampling of hoofs sounded in our ears, and the next moment a band of horsemen came driving pell-mell into the opening. At a single glance we recognised the guerilla!
Ransom, who was nearest, blazed away at the foremost of the band, missing his aim. With a spring the guerillero was over him, his sabre raised for the blow. I fired, and the Mexican leapt from his saddle with a groan.
“Thank you, Haller,” cried my antagonist, as we rushed side by side towards the pistols.
There were four pairs in all, and the surgeons and seconds had already armed themselves, and were pointing their weapons at the enemy. We seized the remaining two, cocking them as we turned.
At this moment my eye fell upon a black horse, and, looking, I recognised the rider. He saw and recognised me at the same moment, and, driving the spurs into his horse’s flanks, sprang forward with a yell. With one bound he was over me, his white teeth gleaming like a tiger’s. His sabre flashed in my eyes—I fired—a heavy body dashed against me—I was struck senseless to the earth!
I was only stunned, and in a few moments I came to my senses. Shots and shouts rang around me. I heard the trampling of hoofs and the groans of wounded men.
I looked up. Horsemen in dark uniforms were galloping across the glade and into the woods beyond. I recognised the yellow facings of the American dragoons.
I drew my hand over my face; it was wet with blood. A heavy body lay across mine, which Little Jack, with all his strength, was endeavouring to drag off. I crawled from under it, and, bending over, looked at the features. I knew them at a glance. I muttered to my servant:
“Dubrosc! He is dead!”
His body lay spread out in its picturesque attire. A fair form it was. A bullet—my own—had passed through his heart, killing him instantly. I placed my hand upon his forehead. It was cold already, and his beautiful features were white and ashy. His eyes glared with the ghastly expression of death.
“Close them!” I said to the boy, and turned away from the spot.
Wounded men lay around, dragoons and Mexicans, and some were already dead.
A party of officers was at the moment returning from the pursuit, and I recognised my late adversary, with our seconds and surgeons. My friend Clayley had been wounded in the mêlée, and I observed that he carried his arm in a sling. A dragoon officer galloped up.
It was Colonel Harding.
“These fellows, gentlemen,” cried he, reining up his horse, “just came in time to relieve me from a disagreeable duty. I have orders from the commander-in-chief to arrest Captains Haller and Ransom.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued with a smile, “I think you have had fighting enough for one morning, and if you will promise me to be quiet young men, and keep the peace, I shall, for once in my life, take the liberty of disobeying a general’s orders. What say you, gentlemen?”
It needed not this appeal. There had been no serious cause of quarrel between my adversary and myself, and, moved by a similar impulse, we both stepped forward and grasped one another by the hand.
“Forgive me, my dear Haller,” said Ransom, “I retract all. I assure you my remarks were only made upon the spur of the moment, when I was angry about those cursed leather breeches.”
“And I regret to have given you cause,” I replied. “Come with me to my quarters. Let us have a glass of wine together, and we shall light our cigars with the villainous document.”
A burst of laughter followed, in which Ransom good-naturedly joined; and we were soon on our way to town, seated in the same carriage, and the best friends in creation!
Some of the soldiers who had “rifled” the body of Dubrosc found a paper upon him which proved that the Frenchman was a spy in the service of Santa Anna. He had thrown himself into the company at New Orleans with the intention of gaining information, and then deserting on his arrival at Mexico. This he succeeded in doing in the manner detailed. Had he been in command of the “Rifle Rangers”, he would doubtless have found an opportunity to deliver them over to the enemy at La Virgen or elsewhere.
Clayley had now recovered, and I once more enjoyed the society of my light-hearted friend. But neither that nor the smiles of the hospitable Jalapenas could make me happy. My thoughts dwelt upon Guadalupe, and often was I harassed with the painful apprehension that I should never see her again. Better fortune, however, was in store for me.
One day Clayley and I were sitting over our wine, along with a gay party of friends, in the Fonda de Diligencias, the principal hotel of Jalapa, when Jack touched me on the shoulder, and whispered in my ear:
“Captain, there’s a Mexican wants to see ye.”
“Who is it?” I demanded, somewhat annoyed at the interruption.
“It’s the brother,” replied Jack, still speaking in a whisper.
“The brother! What brother?”
“Of the young ladies, Captain.”
I started from my chair, overturning a decanter and several glasses.
“Hilloa! what’s the matter?” shouted several voices in a breath.
“Gentlemen, will you excuse me?—one moment only—I—I—will—”
“Certainly! certainly!” cried my companions, all at once, wondering what was the matter.
The next moment I was in the ante-sala, embracing Narcisso. “And so you are all here! When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday, Captain. I came to town for you, but could not find you.”
“And they are well?—all well?”
“Yes, Captain. Papa expects you will come this evening, with the lieutenant and the other officer.”
“The other officer! Who, Narcisso!”
“I think he was with you on your first visit to La Virgen—un señor gordo.”
“Oh! the major! Yes, yes, we shall come; but where have you been since we met, Narcissito?”
“To Orizava. Papa has a tobacco-farm near Orizava; he always goes to it when he comes up here. But, Captain, we were so astonished to hear from your people that you had been a prisoner, and travelling along with us! We knew the guerillos had some American prisoners, but we never dreamt of its being you. Carambo! if I had known that!”
“But how came you, Narcisso, to be with the guerilla?”
“Oh! papa had many things to carry up the country; and he, with some other families, paid Colonel Cenobio for an escort—the country is so full of robbers.”
“Ah! sure. Tell me, Narcisso, how came I by this?”
I held out the dagger.
“I know not, Captain. I am ashamed to tell you that I lost it the day after you gave it to me!”
“Oh! never mind. Take it again, and say to your papa, I shall bring ‘el señor gordo’ (the fat gentleman) along with me.”
“You will know the way, Captain. Yonder is our house.” And the lad pointed to the white turrets of an aristocratic-looking mansion that appeared over the tree-tops, about a mile distant from the town.
“I shall easily find it.”
“Adieu, then, Captain; we shall be impatient till you arrive—hasta la tarde!” (till the evening).
So saying, the youth departed.
I communicated to Clayley the cause of my temporary withdrawal; and, seizing the earliest opportunity, we left our companions over their cups.
It was now near sundown, and we were about to jump into our saddles, when I recollected my promise to bring the major. Clayley proposed leaving him behind and planning an apology; but a hint that he might be useful in “keeping off” Don Cosmé and the señora caused the lieutenant suddenly to change his tactics, and we set out for Blossom’s quarters.
We had no difficulty in persuading “el señor gordo” to accompany us, as soon as he ascertained where we were going. He had never ceased to remember that dinner. Hercules was brought out and saddled, and we all three galloped off for the mansion of our friends.
After passing under the shadows, of green trees, and through copses filled with bright flowers, we arrived at the house, one of the fairest mansions it had ever been our fortune to enter. We were just in time to enjoy the soft twilight of an eternal spring—of a landscape siempre verde; and, what was more to the major’s mind, in time for a supper that rivalled the well-remembered dinner.
As I had anticipated, the major proved exceedingly useful during the visit. In his capacity of quarter-master he had already picked up a little Spanish—enough to hold Don Cosmé in check over the wine; while Clayley and myself, with “Lupé” and “Luz”, walked out into the verandah to “take a peep at the moon”. Her light was alluring, and we could not resist the temptation of a stroll through the gardens.
It was celestial night; and we dallied along dos y dos (two and two), under the pictured shadows of the orange-trees, and sat upon curiously-formed benches, and gazed upon the moon, and listened to the soft notes of the tropic night-birds.
The perils of the past were all forgotten, and the perils of the future—we thought not of them.
It was late when we said “buenas noches” to our friends, and we parted with a mutual “hasta la mañana.” It is needless to say that we kept our promise in the morning, and made another for the following morning, and kept that too; and so on till the awful bugle summoned us once more to the “route.”
The detail of our actions during these days would have no interest for the reader, though to us the most interesting part of our lives. There was a sameness—a monotony, it is true; but a monotony that both my friend and myself could have endured for ever.
I do not even remember the details. All I can remember is, that on the eve of our march I found myself “cornering” Don Cosmé, and telling him plainly, to his teeth, that I meant to marry one of his daughters; and that my friend—who had not yet learned the “lingo”, and had duly commissioned me as his “go-between”—would be most happy to take the other off his hands.
I remember very well, too, Don Cosmé’s reply, which was given with a half-smile, half-grin—somewhat cold, though not disagreeable in its expression. It was thus:
“Captain—when the war is over.”
Don Cosmé had no intention that his daughters should become widows before they had fairly been wives.
And we bade adieu once more to the light of love, and walked in the shadow of war; and we toiled up to the high tables of the Andes, and crossed the burning plains of Perote; and we forded the cold streams of Rio Frio, and climbed the snowy spurs of Popocatepec; and, after many a toilsome march, our bayonets bristled along the borders of the Lake Tezcoco. Here we fought—a death-struggle, too—for we knew there was no retreat. But our struggle was crowned with victory, and the starry flag waved over the ancient city of the Aztecs.
Neither my friend nor myself escaped unhurt. We were shot “all over”; but, fortunately, no bones were broken, and neither of us was converted into a cripple.
And then came the “piping times of peace”, and Clayley and I spent our days in riding out upon the Jalapa road, watching for that great old family-carriage, which, it had been promised, should come.
And it came rumbling along at length, drawn by twelve mules, and deposited its
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