A RETROSPECT.
Before carrying our story further we must give the reader certain details about the family and antecedents of Don Sebastian Guerrero, who is destined to play a great part in our narrative.
The family of Don Sebastian was rich; he descended in a straight line from one of the early kings of Mexico, and pure Aztec blood flowed in his veins. Like several other great Mexican families, his ancestors had not been dispossessed by the conquerors, to whom they rendered important services; but they were obliged to add a Spanish name to the Mexican one, which sounded harshly in Castilian ears.
Still the Guerrero family boasted loudly of its Aztec origin, and if it seemed ostensibly devoted to Spain, it secretly maintained the hope of seeing Mexico one day regain her liberty.
Thus, when the heroic Hidalgo, the humble curate of the little village of Dolores, suddenly raised the standard of revolt against the oppressors of his country, Don Eustaquio Guerrero, though married but a short time previously to a woman he adored, and father of a son hardly six years of age, was one of the first to respond to the appeal of the insurgents, and join Hidalgo at the head of four hundred resolute men raised on his own enormous estates.
The Mexican revolution was a singular one; for nearly all the promoters and heroes were priests—the only country in the world where the clergy have openly taken the initiative in progress, and thus displayed profound sympathy for the liberty of the people.
Don Eustaquio Guerrero was in turn companion of those modest heroes whom disdainful history has almost forgotten, and whose names were, Hidalgo, Morelos, Hermenegildo Galeana, Allende, Abasolo, Aldama, Valerio Trujano, Torres, Rayon, Sotomayor, Manuel Mier-y-Teran, and many others whose names have escaped me; and who, after fighting gloriously for the liberty of their country, now repose in their bloody tombs, protected by that glorious nimbus which Heaven places round the brow of martyrs, whatever be the cause they have defended, so long as that cause is just.
More fortunate than the majority of his brave comrades in arms, who were destined to fall one after the other, some as victims to Spanish barbarity, others conquered by treachery, Don Eustaquio escaped as if by a miracle from the innumerable dangers of this war, which lasted ten years, and at length witnessed the complete expulsion of the Spaniards and the proclamation of independence.
The brave soldier, prematurely aged, covered with wounds, and disgusted by the ingratitude of his fellow countrymen, who, scarce free, began attacking each other, and inaugurated that fatal era of pronunciamientos, the list of which is already so long, and will only be closed by the ruin of the country, and the loss of its nationality, retired, gloomy and sad, to his Hacienda del Palmar, situated in the province of Valladolid, and sought, in the company of his wife and son, to recover some sparks of that happiness he had formerly enjoyed when he was but an obscure citizen.
But this supreme consolation was denied him; his wife died in his arms scarce two years after their reunion, attacked by an unknown disease, which dragged her to the grave in a few weeks.
After the death of the woman he loved with all the strength of his soul, Don Eustaquio, crushed by sorrow, only dragged on a wretched existence, which terminated exactly one year after his wife's death. Her name was the last word that wandered on his pallid lips as he drew his parting breath.
Don Sebastian, who was scarce twenty years of age, was left an orphan. Alone, without relatives or friends, the young man shut himself up in his hacienda, where he silently bewailed the two beings he had lost, and on whom he had concentrated all his affections.
Don Sebastian would probably have remained for many years in retirement, without seeing the world, or caring how it went on—leading the careless, idle, and brutalising life of those great land-holders whom no idea of progress or amelioration impels to trouble themselves about their estates, timid and fearful, like all men who live alone, spending his days in hunting and sleeping—had not chance, or rather his lucky star, brought to Palmar an old partisan chief who had long fought by the side of Don Eustaquio, and who, happening to pass a few leagues from the place, felt old reminiscences aroused in him, and determined to press the hand of his old comrade, whose death he was not aware of.
The name of this man was Don Isidro Vargas. He was of lofty stature, his shoulders were wide, his limbs athletic, and his features imprinted with an uncommon energy; in a word, he presented in his person the type of that powerful and devoted race which is daily dying out in Mexico, and of which, ere long, not a specimen will be left.
The unexpected arrival of this guest, whose heavy spurs and long steel-scabbarded sabre re-echoed noisily on the tiled floors of the hacienda, brought life into the mansion which had been so long devoted to silence and the gloomy tranquillity of the cloister.
Like all old soldiers, Captain Don Isidro had a rough voice and sharp way of speaking; his manners were brusque, but his character was gay, and gifted with a rare equanimity of temper.
When he entered the house Don Sebastian was out hunting, and the hacienda seemed uninhabited. The captain at first found enormous difficulty in meeting with anyone to address. At length, by careful search, he detected a peon half asleep under a verandah, who gave some sort of answer to the questions asked him. By great patience and questions made with that craft peculiar to the Mexicans, the captain succeeded in obtaining some valuable information.
The death of Don Eustaquio only astonished the worthy soldado slightly; he expected it, indeed, from the moment he learnt the death of the señora, for whom he knew his old comrade professed so deep a love; but on learning the idle life Don Sebastian had led since his father's death, the captain burst out in a furious passion, and swore by all the saints in the Spanish calendar (and they are tolerably numerous), that this state of things should not last much longer.
The captain had known the young man when he was but a child. Many times he had dandled him on his knee, and thus, with his ideas of honour and generosity, he thought himself obliged, as an old friend of his father, to remove the son from the slothful existence he led.
Consequently the old soldier installed himself authoritatively in the hacienda, and firmly awaited the return of the man he had been accustomed to regard for a long time almost in the light of a son.
The day passed peacefully. The Indian peons, long accustomed to profess the greatest respect for embroidered hats and jingling sabres, left him free to act as he pleased—a liberty the old soldier did not at all abuse, for he contented himself with ordering an immense vase full of an infusion of tamarinds, which he placed on a table, up to which he drew a butaca, and amused himself with smoking an enormous quantity of husk cigarettes, which he made as he wanted them, with that dexterity alone possessed by the Spanish race.
At about oración time, or six in the evening, the captain, who had fallen quietly asleep, was aroused by a great noise, mingled with shouts, barking, and the neighing of horses, which he heard outside.
"Ah, ah!" he said, turning up his moustache, "I fancy the muchacho has at last arrived."
It was, indeed, Don Sebastian returning from the chase.
The old partisan, who was sitting opposite a window, was enabled to examine his friend's son at his ease, without being perceived in his turn. He could not repress a smile of satisfaction at the sight of the vigorous young man, with his haughty features bearing the imprint of boldness, wildness, and timidity, and his well-built limbs.
"What a pity," he muttered to himself, "if such a fine fellow were to be expended here without profit to himself or to others! It will not be my fault if I do not succeed in rousing the boy from the state of lethargy into which he is plunged. I owe that to the memory of his poor father."
While making these reflections, as he heard the clanking of spurs in the room before that in which he was, he fell back on his butaca, and put on again his usual look of indifference. Don Sebastian entered. He had not seen the captain for several years. The greeting he gave him, though slightly awkward and embarrassed, was, however, affectionate. After the first compliments they sat down face to face.
"Well, muchacho," the captain said, suddenly plunging in medias res, "you did not expect a visit from me, I fancy?"
"I confess, captain, that I was far from supposing that you would come. To what fortunate accident do I owe your presence in my house?"
"I will tell you presently, muchacho. For the present we will talk about other matters, if you have no objection."
"At your ease, captain; I do not wish to displease you in any way."
"We will see that presently, cuerpo de Dios! And in the first place, to speak frankly, I will tell you that I did not come to see you, but your worthy father, my brave general. Voto a brios! The news of his death quite upset me, and I am not myself again yet."
"I am very grateful, captain, for the kindly memory in which you hold my father."
"Capa de Cristo!" the captain said, who, among other habits more or less excellent, possessed to an eminent degree that of seasoning each of his phrases with an oath, at times somewhat unorthodox, "of course I hold in kind memory the man by whose side I fought for ten years, and to whom I owe it that I am what I am. Yes, I do remember him, and I hope soon, canarios! To prove it to his son."
"I thank you, captain, though I do not perceive in what way you can give me this proof."
"Good, good!" he said, gnawing his moustache. "I know how to do it, and that is enough. Everything will come at its right season."
"As you please, my old friend. At any rate, you will be kind enough to remember that you are at home here, and that the longer you stay the greater pleasure you will afford me."
"Good, muchacho! I expected that from you. I will avail myself of the hospitality so gracefully offered, but will not abuse it."
"An old comrade in arms of my father's cannot do that in his house, captain, and you less than anyone else. But," he added, seeing a peon enter, "here is a servant come to announce that the dinner is served. I confess to you that, as I have been hunting all day, I am now dying of hunger: if you will follow me we will sit down to the table and renew our acquaintance glass in hand."
"I ask nothing better, rayo de Dios!" the captain said as he rose. "Though I have not been hunting, I think I shall do honour to the repast."
And without further talking they passed into a dining room, where a sumptuously and abundantly-served table awaited them.
According to a patriarchal custom, which, unfortunately, like all good things, is beginning to die out, at Palmar the master and servants took their meals together. This custom, which had existed in the family since the conquest, Don Sebastian kept up—in the first place, through respect for his father's memory, and secondly, because the servants at the hacienda were devoted to their master, and to some extent supplied the place of a family.
The evening passed away, without any incident worthy of remark, in chatting about war and the chase. Captain Don Isidro Vargas was an old soldier, as cunning as a monk. Too clever to assail the young man's ideas straightforwardly, he resolved to study him for some time, in order to discover the weak points of his character, and see how he must attack him in order to drag him out of that slothful and purposeless life he led in this forgotten province. Thus several days were passed in hunting and other amusements, and the captain never once alluded to the subject he had at heart. At times he might make a covert allusion to the active life of the capital, the opportunities of securing a fine position which a man of Don Sebastian's age could not fail to find at Mexico, if he would take the trouble to go there, and many other insinuations of the same nature; but the young man let them pass without making the slightest observation, or even appearing to understand them.
"Patience!" the captain muttered. "I shall eventually find the flaw in his cuirass; and if I do not succeed, I must be preciously clumsy."
And he recommenced his covert attacks, not allowing the young man's impassive indifference to rebuff him.
Don Sebastian performed his duties as master of the house with thoroughly Mexican grace, amenity, and sumptuousness; that is, he invented every sort of amusement which he thought would be most suited to the worthy captain's tastes. The latter let him do so with the utmost coolness, and conscientiously enjoyed the pleasures the young man procured him, charmed in his heart by the activity he displayed in pleasing him, and more and more persuaded that, if he succeeded in arousing in him the feelings which he supposed were slumbering in his mind, it would be easy to convert him to his own ideas, and make him abandon the absorbing life of a campesino.
More than once, during the few days they spent in hunting in the magnificent plains that surrounded the hacienda, accident enabled the captain to admire the skill with which the young man managed his steed, and his superiority in all those exercises which demand strength, activity, and, above all, skill.
On one occasion especially, at the moment the hunters galloped in pursuit of a magnificent stag they had put up, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a cougouar, which threatened to dispute their progress. The cougouar is the American lion. It has no mane. Like all the other carnivora of the New World it cares little about attacking a man, and it is only when reduced to the last extremity that it turns upon him; but then it fights with a courage and energy that frequently render its approach extremely dangerous.
On the occasion to which we allude the cougouar seemed resolved to await its enemies boldly. The captain, but little accustomed to find himself face to face with such enemies, experienced that internal tremor which assails the bravest man when he finds himself exposed to a serious danger. Still, as the old soldier was notoriously brave, he soon recovered from this involuntary emotion, and cocked his gun, while watching the crouching animal, which fixed its glaring eyes on him.
"Do not fire, captain," Don Sebastian said with a perfectly calm voice; "you are not used to this chase, and, without wishing it, might injure the skin, which you see is magnificent, and that would be a pity."
Don Sebastian thereupon let his gun fall, took a pistol from his holster, and spurring his horse at the same time that he checked it, made it rear. The animal rose, and stood almost on its hind legs; the cougouar suddenly bounded forward with a terrible roar; the young man dug his knees into his horse, which bounded on one side, while Don Sebastian pulled the trigger. The monster rolled on the ground in convulsive agony.
"Cuerpo de Cristo!" the captain shouted; "why, you've killed it on the spot! No matter, muchacho; you played for a heavy stake."
"Bah!" the other said as he dismounted; "it is not so difficult as you fancy; it only requires practice."
"Hum! It must require practice to shoot such an animal on the wing. The ball has entered its eye."
"Yes, we generally shoot them there, so as not to spoil the skin."
"Ah, very good! To tell you the truth, though, I, who am by no means a bad shot, should not like to try the experiment."
"You are calumniating yourself."
"Very possibly."
"Poor Pepe, my tigrero, will lose by that a reward of ten piastres—all the worse for him. Shall we return to the hacienda, and send someone to bring the brute in?"
"With all my heart."
They went back.
"Hum!" the captain said to himself as they galloped on, "I must have a definitive explanation with him this very evening."