Chapter Fifty Four.
Monks no More.
The surmise which had influenced Zorillo to leaving the convent cell earlier than he intended was a correct one. The goings on in the Refectory were, at the time, of an unusual kind—a grand occasion, as he had worded it. There were some fifty men in it; but not one of them now effecting either the garb or the behaviour of the monk. Soldiers all; or at least in warlike guise; a few wearing regular though undress uniforms, but the majority habited as “guerilleros,” in the picturesque costumes of their country. They were booted, and belted, swords by their sides, with pistols in holsters hanging against the walls, and spurs ready for buckling on. Standing in corners were stacks of carbines, and lances freshly pennoned, with their blades bright from being recently sharpened—a panoply which spoke of fighting ere long expected to take place.
It may be asked where were their horses, since all the arms and accoutrements seen around were those of cavalry? But horses they had, though not there. Each knew where to lay hands on his own, far or near, stalled in the stable of some sequestered rancho, or, it might be, mountain cavern. They were not yet assembled to hearken to the call of “Boot and Saddle.” That they would hear at a later hour, and in a different place.
The occasion of their being in such guise and together was because it was to be the last night of their sojourn in the monastery. And they were making it a merry one; the Refectory table was being loaded with the best that was left to them in meals and drinks. Upon it were what bottles remained of those famous wines from the bins of the rich haciendado—his forced contribution—and they were fast getting emptied. From the way the convives were quaffing, it was not likely that any of the Burgundy, Madeira, or Pedro Ximenes would be left behind—not even a “heel-tap.”
It had got to be midnight, and they were still in the midst of the revelry, when Rivas, who headed the table, rose to his feet, in that formal manner which tells of speech to be made or toast proclaimed.
“Camaradas!” he said, as soon as the buzz of conversation had ended, “as you’re aware, we part from this place to-night; and some of you know whither we are going and for what purpose. But not all; therefore I deem it my duty to tell you. You saw a courier who came up early this morning—bringing good news, I’m glad to say. This despatch I hold in my hand is from an old friend, General Alvarez, who, though he may not boast sangre-azul in his veins, is as brave a soldier and pure a patriot as any in the land. You know that. He tells me his Pintos are ready for a rising, and only wait for us—the ‘Free Lances’—with some others he has summoned to join him in giving the grito. By his messenger I have sent answer that we, too, are ready, and will respond to his summons. You all approve of that, I take it?”
“All!” was the exclaim in chorus, without a dissenting voice.
“Moreover,” proceeded the speaker, “I’ve told the General we’ll be on the march to-morrow morning, and can meet him at a place he has mentioned the day after. His plan is to attack the town of Oaxaca; and, if we succeed in taking it, then we move direct on the capital. Now camarados, I’ve nothing more to say; only that you’re to scatter after your horses, and lose no time in mustering again—the old rendezvous, this side La Guarda.”
So ended the speech of the Free Lances’ leader; but despite the suggestions of immediate departure, the circle around the table did not instantly break up.
The bottles were not all empty as yet, nor the revellers satisfied to leave them till they should be so. Besides, there was no particular need of haste for another hour or two. So they stuck to the table, smoking, drinking, and toasting many things, as persons, among the latter their lately joined allies—the Irlandes and Tejano, about whose proved valour on other fields, of which they had heard, the Free Lances were enthusiastically eloquent.
Kearney, speaking in their own tongue, made appropriate response; while Rock, when told he had been toasted, delivered himself in characteristic strain, saying:—
“Feller-citizens,—For since I tuk up yur cause, I reck’n you’ll gi’e me leave to call ye so—it air a glad thing to this chile to think he’ll soon hev a bit o’ fightin’. An’ ’specially as it’s to be agin ole Santy, the durned skunk. By the jumpin’ Geehosofat! if Cris Rock iver gits longside him agin, as he war on’t San Jacinty, there wan’t be no more meercy for the cussed tyrant, same as, like a set of fools, we Texans showed him thar an’ then. Tell them what I sayed, Cap.”
With which abrupt wind-up he dropped back upon his seat, gulping down a tumblerful of best Madeira, as though it were table-beer.
Kearney did tell them, translating his comrade’s speech faithfully as the patois would permit; which heightened their enthusiasm, many of them starting to their feet, rushing round the table, and, Mexican fashion, enfolding the Tejano in friendly embrace.
The hugging at an end, there was yet another toast to follow, the same which always wound up the festivals of the “Free Lances,” whatever the occasion. Their leader, as often before, now again pronounced it—
“Patria y Libertad”.
And never before did it have more enthusiastic reception, the cheer that rang through the old convent, louder than any laughter of monks who may have ever made it their home.
Ere it had ceased reverberating, the door of the Refectory was suddenly pushed open, and a man rushed into the room, as he entered, crying out—
“Traicion!”
“Treason!” echoed fifty voices as one, all again starting to their feet, and turning faces towards the alarmist. The major-domo it was, who, as the other mozos, was half equipped for a journey.
“What mean you, Gregorio?” demanded his master.
“There’s one can tell you better than I, Don Ruperto.”
“Who? Where is he?”
“Outside, Señor. A messenger who has just come up—he’s from San Augustin.”
“But how has he passed our sentry.”
“Ah! capitano; I’d rather he told you himself.”
Mysterious speech on the part of the major-domo, which heightened the apprehension of those hearing it. “Call him hither!” commanded Rivas.
No calling was needed; the person spoken of being in the environ close by; and Gregorio, again opening the door, drew him inside.
“The cochero!” mentally exclaimed Rivas, Kearney, and the Texan, soon as setting eyes on him.
The cochero it was, José, though they knew not his name, nor anything more of him than what they had learned in that note of the Condesa’s, saying that he could be trusted, and their brief association with him afterwards—which gave them proof that he could.
As he presented himself inside the room he seemed panting for breath, and really was. He had only just arrived up the steep climb, and exchanged hardly half a dozen words with the major-domo, who had met him at the outside entrance.
Announced as a messenger, neither the Captain of the Free Lances nor Florence Kearney needed telling who sent him. A sweet intuition told them that. Rivas but asked—
“How have you found the way up here?”
“Por Dios! Señor, I’ve been here before—many’s the time. I was born among these mountains—am well acquainted with all the paths everywhere around.”
“But the sentry below. How did you get past him? You haven’t the countersign!”
“He wouldn’t have heard it if I had, Señor. Pobre! he’ll never hear countersign again—nor anything else.”
“Why? Explain yourself!”
“Esta muerto! He lies at the bottom of the cliff, his body crushed—”
“Who has done it? Who’s betrayed us?” interrupted a volley of voices.
“The hunchback, Zorillo,” answered José, to the astonishment of all. For in the dialogue between the dwarf and Santander, he had heard enough to anticipate the ghastly spectacle awaiting him on his way up the mountain.
Cries of anger and vengeance were simultaneously sent up; all showing eager to rush from the room. They but waited for a word more.
Rivas, however, suspecting that the messenger meant that word for himself, claimed their indulgence, and led him outside, inviting Kearney to accompany them.
Though covering much ground, and relating to many incidents, the cochero’s story was quickly told. Not in the exact order of occurrence, but as questioned by his impatient listeners. He ran rapidly over all that happened since their parting at the corner of the Coyoacan road, the latter events most interesting them. Surprised were they to hear that Don Ignacio and his daughter for some time had been staying at San Augustin—the Condesa with them. Had they but known that before, in all probability things would not have been as now. Possibly they might have been worse; though, even as they stood, there was enough danger impending over all. As for themselves, both Mexican and Irishman, less recked of it, as they thought of how they were being warned, and by whom. That of itself was recompense for all their perils.
Meanwhile those left inside the room were chafing to learn the particulars of the treason, though they were not all there now. Some had sallied out, and gone down the cliff to bring up the body of their murdered comrade; others, the major-domo conducting, back to the place where the hunchback should be, but was not. There to find confirmation of what had been said. The cell untenanted; the window bar filed through and broken; the file lying by it, and the chain hanging down outside.
Intelligible to them now was the tale of treason, without their hearing it told.
When once more they assembled in the Refectory, it was with chastened, saddened hearts. For they had come from digging a grave, and lowering into it a corpse. Again gathered around the table, they drank the stirrup-cup, as was their wont, but never so joylessly, or with such stint.