Chapter Twenty One.
Six O’clock—in the Alameda!
I had little difficulty in clearing the paroled officer from the charge of assassinating “a member of the Spy Company.”
As soon as his accusers discovered what I knew of that affair, they not only withdrew their accusation, but their own precious persons, beyond the reach of court-martial inquiry.
When “wanted,” to give testimony in the investigation that ensued, not one, but five, of Dominguez’s followers were reported “missing!” The four coadjutors of him who had been killed thought it more prudent not to press the charge; and when sent for, could not be found either in the “Spy” quarters, or elsewhere in the City of the Angels!
They had taken their departure a los Montes; and I was left alone to tell the story of that nocturnal encounter.
For their testimony I cared not a straw; though the episode was not without some beneficial effects. It taught our renegade allies a little lesion; which was no doubt afterwards profitable—if not to themselves—to those who were so unfortunate as to have dealings with them.
I was not so indifferent to the escape of the scoundrels who had attacked me in the “Street of the Sparrows;” and who appeared to have their head-quarters there.
In half an hour after leaving it with my escort of Red Hats, I was back again—accompanied by a score of Rifle Rangers, who assisted me in making an exploration of that interesting locality.
But the birds we went in search of had flown; and during the remainder of my stay in La Puebla de los Angeles, I never more set eyes upon my quaint challenger.
I learnt something more of him from Francisco—some chapters of his history that did not fail to astonish me. He had been a captain in the Mexican army; and would be so again, should the tyrant Santa Anna get restored to his dictatorial power. Whenever the star of the latter was in the ascendant, the former was sure of a commission.
But as the light of Santa Anna’s star had been of late only intermittent, so also was the holding of his commission by Captain Torreano Carrasco.
During the intervals which Francisco jocosely styled “his leaves of absence,” the gallant captain was in the habit of spending a portion of his time among the mountains.
“What does he do there?” I innocently inquired of my informant.
“Carrambo, señor! It is strange you should ask that. I thought everybody knew,” was the answer.
“Knew what?”
“That El Capitan Carrasco is un pocito de salteador.”
I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.
The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity—scarcely a crime—one of the Cosas de Mexico!
He was more serious when replying to my next question: “Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?”
“Why do you ask, caballero?” he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; “You know them?”
“I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions.”
“If I thought so I’d—. Bah! it is not possible. He dare not—. Tell me, caballero; what did you observe?”
“Oh, nothing more than I’ve said. What do you know about it yourself?”
“En verdad, nothing either! It was only a thought I had—from something I once saw. I may have been mistaken. ’Tis of no consequence.”
We spoke no more upon the subject. It was evidently painful to Francisco Moreno—as it was to myself.
At a later period—when our acquaintance became better established—further confidence was exchanged between us; and I was told the story of Francisco’s courtship—to a portion of which, without his knowing it, I had listened before.
It was as I had supposed. There was an objection to his being united to his dear Dolores—her father being chief objector. The young soldier was but a “poor gentleman”—with no other prospect, save that at the point of his sword—not much in Mexico, to a man with an honest heart. There was a rival who was rich; and to this “party” Don Eusebio had promised his daughter—with the threat of a convent in the case of her refusal.
Notwithstanding this menace, Francisco was full of hope—based upon the promises of Dolores. She had expressed her determination to share penury with him rather than wed the rico, who was not of her choice—to die, or do anything rather than go into a convent!
I was not so communicative as my new acquaintance—at least as regarded my relationship with the family of Villa-Señor. To have spoken of Mercedes to another would have spoiled the romance of my passion. Not a word said I to Francisco of that hopeful affair.
From that day I became noted, as one of the earliest risers on the muster-roll of the American army. Not a morning did I outsleep the reveille; nor once missed matins in the Cathedral.
Several times I again saw Mercedes. Each time there was an exchange of glances—each day becoming better understood between us.
And still not a word had we exchanged! I feared to risk speech—the humiliation that would follow, if perchance I was mistaken.
I was again on the eve of resorting to the epistolary mode of communication—and had actually written the letter, intending to deliver it—not second-hand through the cochero, but, in propria persona, to the lady herself.
At each succeeding oraçion I watched for an opportunity; when the fair worshipper, passing out along with the crowd, might come within delivering distance.
Twice had I been disappointed. On the third time I had the chance, without taking advantage of it!
It was not needed. The wish I had expressed in my epistle was better worded by Mercedes herself. As she descended the steps on her way to the street, her lips came so close to my ear, that I was enabled to catch every syllable of that sweet whisper:
“En la Alameda. A seis horas!” (At six o’clock, in the Alameda!)