Chapter Twenty Five.
An Antipathy to Robbers.
After the storming of Chapultepec—the “summer palace of the Moctezumas;” in which I had the honour of leading the forlorn hope—do not mistake a plain statement of fact for a baseless boast—after a seclusion of three months within the walls of a sick chamber, caused by wounds in that action received; I stepped forth upon the streets of the Mexican capital fully restored to health.
Three months more were spent in partaking of those joys—the reward of the victorious soldier, who has completed a campaign.
As in the “City of the Angels,” so was it in that of the Moctezumas. The officers of the invading army were excluded from the “interiors”—such of them as were worth entering.
But as it was no longer an army of invaders, but conquerors, the exclusion was neither so strict nor general. There were exceptions on both sides—extending to a limited number of courageous hosts and welcome guests.
It was my fortune to be among the favoured few. One or two incidents had occurred along the route—one more especially during the march upon Mexico—in which I had the opportunity of bestowing favour and protection. They were reciprocated tenfold by protégés—who chanced to be of the familias principales of Mexico.
During the three months that I lay upon the couch of convalescence, I was surrounded by luxuries brought me by grateful brothers. In the three months that followed I was overwhelmed by the caresses of their sweet sisters; all, of course, in an honest way.
It was a pleasant time; and, if anything could have made me forget Dolores Villa-Señor, this should have done it.
It did not. The sweetest smile I received in the Valley of Tenochtitlan did not, and could not, stifle within my breast the bitter souvenir I had brought with me from the other side of the Cordillera.
Six months after the capture of the Summer Palace, my life in the city of the Moctezumas became dull indeed.
The theatres, slimly attended by the feminine élite of the place; the balls not attended at all, or only by questionable poblanas, and the plain wives and daughters of the foreign residents (why are they always plain in such places?) soon became unbearable.
Even dissipation could not redeem the dulness of the times.
For me the monté table had no longer an attraction. The green cloth was spread out in vain; and I could stand by and hear, without the slightest emotion, “Cavallo mozo!” “Soto en la puerta!”
In truth my interest in all things appeared gone—all upon earth, with the exception of Dolores Villa-Señor; and she I could scarce think a thing of earth.
Just at this crisis there came a chance of distraction. I hailed it with a feeling of gladness.
The stray troops of the enemy had forsaken the roads that surrounded the capital—as had also their guerilleros. But still the ways were not safe. Partisans had disappeared, to be succeeded by salteadores!
From all sides came rumours of robbers—from Puebla on the east, Toluca on the west, Cuernavaca on the south, and the Llanos de Apam, that extend northward from the Valley of Tenochtitlan. Scarce passed a day without “novedades” of the bandits, and their devilish audacity: stage-coaches stopped; travellers commanded to lie flat along the earth, while their pockets were being turned inside out; and some stretched upon the ground never more to stand in an erect attitude!
An escort of our dragoons could have prevented this—that is, upon any particular occasion. But to have sent an escort with every traveller, who had need to go forth out of the capital, would have required a score of squadrons of well-appointed cavalry. At the time we chanced to be short in this arm; and the distribution of our troops to Cuernavaca and Toluca, the strong force necessary to garrison Puebla—and the numerous detachments required to accompany the commissariat trains, left no cavalry disposable for eccentric service.
Till we should receive from Uncle Sam a reinforcement of dragoons, the robbers must be allowed to stop travellers and capture stage-coaches at discretion.
This was the condition of things, six months after the second conquest of Mexico.
I, for one, did not like it. It was but a Christian instinct to hate robbers, wherever found; but in the town of Puebla I had imbibed for this class of mankind a peculiar antipathy.
Experience and suspicion both formed its basis. I remembered Captain Carrasco, and I could not help remembering Captain Moreno!
A young artist who had accompanied our army throughout the campaign—and whose life-like pictures were the admiration of all who looked upon them—had been imprudent enough to risk travelling by diligencia from Mexico to La Puebla. It was not his destiny to arrive at the City of the Angels—on earth; though it is to be hoped he has reached the abode of truer angels in heaven! He was murdered among the mountains of the mal pais—between the “venta” of Rio Frio and that of Cordova.
I had formed a strong attachment to this unfortunate youth. He had oft partaken of the hospitality of my tent; and, in return I suppose for such slight acts of kindness, in his great picture of the storming of Chapultepec, he had fixed my face upon the canvas, foremost—far foremost—of those who on that day dared to look over the well-defended walls.
The consciousness of having performed the feat did not render me less sensible of the kindness of its being recorded. I, a homeless, nameless, adventurer, with no one to sing my praise—save those who had witnessed my deeds—could not feel otherwise than grateful.
He saw, and sang them; in that verse in which he was a master—the poetry of the pencil.
I was half mad, when I heard that he had been murdered.
In twenty minutes after, I stood in the presence of the commander-in-chief.