Chapter Thirty Four.
An ill-used Coachman.
“Such forethought?” exclaimed Rivas, as the landau went rattling along the road with the speed of a war-chariot, “wonderful!” he went on. “Ah, for cleverness, commend me to a woman—when her will’s in it. We men are but simpletons to them. My glorious Ysabel! She’s the sort for a soldier’s wife. But don’t let me be claiming all the credit for her. Fair play to the Señorita Valverde; who has, I doubt not, done her share of the contriving—on your account, Señor.”
The Señor so spoken to had no doubt of it either, and would have been grieved to think otherwise, but he was too busy at the moment to say much, and only signified his assent in monosyllables. With head down, and arms in see-sawing motion, he was endeavouring to cut their coupling-chain; the tool he handled being a large file; another of the “something” to be found under the cushions—as found it was! No wonder Don Ruperto’s enthusiastic admiration of the providence which had placed it there.
Handy with workmen’s tools as with warlike weapons, the young Irishman had laid hold of it as soon as they were safe through the garita, and was now rasping away with might and main; the other keeping the chain in place.
It was not a task to be accomplished without time. The links were thick as a man’s finger, and would need no end of filing before they could be parted. Still, there was little likelihood of their being interrupted until it could be done. There was nobody on the road, and only here and there some labourers at work in the adjoining fields, too busy to take note of them, or what they were at. The sight of a passing carriage would be nothing strange, and the horses going at a gallop would but lead to the supposition of its being a party of “jovenes dorados” driving out into the country, who had taken too much wine before starting.
But, even though these poor proletarians knew all, there was nothing to be apprehended for any action on their part. Conspiracies and pronunciamentos were not in their line; and the storm of revolution might burst over their heads without their caring what way it went, or even inquiring who was its promoter. So the escaping prisoners took little pains to conceal what they were at. Speed was now more to their purpose than strategy, and they were making their best of it, both to get on along the road, and have their legs free for future action.
“We might have passed safely through that gate,” said the Mexican, who still continued to do the talking, “even had they known who we were.”
“Indeed! how?”
“You saw that sergeant who saluted us?”
“Of course I did, and the grand salute he gave! He couldn’t have made it more impressive had it been the Commander-in-Chief of your army, or the Dictator himself who was passing.”
“And I fancy it was just something of the kind that moved him. Doubtless, the livery of the coachman, which he would know to be that of Don Ignacio Valverde.”
“You think he got us through?”
“Yes. But it wouldn’t have done so if he’d known what was up. Though something else might—that is, his knowing me.”
“Oh! he knows you?”
“He does; though I’m not sure he recognised me in passing, as I did him. Odd enough, his being there just then. He was corporal in a company I once commanded, and I believe liked me as his captain. He’s an old schemer, though; has turned his coat times beyond counting; and just as well there’s been no call for trusting him. He’ll catch it for letting us slip past without challenge; and serve him right, wearing the colours he now does. Ha! they’ve waked up at last! I was expecting that.”
It was the first gun at the citadel which called forth these exclamations, soon followed by the ding-dong of the city bells.
“Carrai!” he continued, “we’re no doubt being pursued now, and by cavalry; some of those we saw in the procession. It begins to look bad. Still, with so much start, and this fine pair of frisones, I’ve not much fear of their overtaking us, till we reach the point I’m making for; unless, indeed—”
“Unless what?” asked Kearney, seeing he had interrupted himself, and was looking out apprehensively.
“That! There’s your answer,” said the Mexican, pointing to a puff of smoke that had just shot out from the summit of an isolated hill on which were batteries and buildings. “Chapultepec—a gun!” he added, and the bang came instantly after.
“We’ll have it hot enough now,” he continued, in a tone telling of alarm. “There’s sure to be cavalry up yonder. If they’re cleverly led, and know which way to take, they may head us off yet, in spite of all we can do. Lay on the whip,” he shouted out to the coachman.
And the whip was laid on, till the horses galloped faster than ever, leaving behind a cloud of dust, which extended back for more than a mile.
The road they were on was the direct route to San Angel; and through this village Rivas had intended going, as he had no reason to believe there were troops stationed in it. But Chapultepec was nearer to it than the point where they themselves were, and cavalry now starting from the latter could easily reach San Angel before them. But there was a branch road leading to Coyoacan, and as that would give them some advantage, he determined on taking it.
And now another gun at the citadel, with the response from Chapultepec, and, soon after, the third booming from both. But meanwhile, something seen at the castle-crowned hill which deepened the anxious expression on the face of the Mexican.
“Santos Dios!” he exclaimed; “just as I expected. Look yonder, Señor!”
Kearney looked, to see a stream pouring out from the castle gates and running down the steep causeway which zig-zags to the bottom of the hill. A stream of men in uniform, by their square crowned shakos and other insignia, recognisable as Lancers. They had neither weapons nor horses with them; but both, as Rivas knew, would be at the Cuartel and stables below. He also knew that the Lanzeros were trained soldiers—a petted arm of the service—and it would not take them long to “boot and saddle.”
More than ever was his look troubled now, still not despairing. He had his hopes and plans.
“Drop your file, Señor,” he said hurriedly; “no time to finish that now. We must wait for a better opportunity. And we’ll have to leave the carriage behind; but not just yet.”
By this they had arrived at the embouchure of the branch road coming out from Cayocaon, into which by his direction the horses were headed, going on without stop or slackening of speed. And so for nearly another mile; then he called out to those on the box to bring up.
Rock, anticipating something of the sort, instantly reined in, and the carriage came to a stand. At which the two inside sprang out upon the road, Kearney calling to the Texan—
“Drop the reins, Cris! Down; unhitch the horses. Quick!”
And quick came he down, jerking the dwarf after, who fell upon all fours; as he recovered his feet, looking as if he had lost his senses. No one heeded him or his looks; the hurry was too great even to stay for unbuckling.
“Cut everything off!” cried Kearney, still speaking to Rock. “Leave on only the bridles.”
With the knife late put into his hands the Texan went to work, Kearney himself plying the other, while Rivas held the horses and unhooked the bearing reins.
Soon pole-pieces and hame-straps were severed; and the frisones led forward left all behind, save the bridles and collars.
“Leave the collars on,” said Rivas, seeing there was no time to detach them. “Now we mount two and two; but first to dispose of him.”
The “him” was José, still seated on the box, apparently in a state of stupor.
“Pull him down, Cris! Tie him to the wheel!” commanded Kearney. “The driving reins will do it.”
The Texan knew how to handle tying gear, as all Texans do, and in a trice the unresisting cochero was dragged from his seat and bound, Ixion-like, to one of the carriage wheels.
But Rock had not done with him yet. There was a necessity for something more, which looked like wanton cruelty—as they wished it to look. This was the opening of the poor fellow’s mouth, and gagging him with the stock of his own whip!
So, rendered voiceless and helpless, he saw the four forzados, two-and-two, get upon his horses and ride off, the only one who vouchsafed to speak a parting word being the dwarf—he calling back in a jocular way—
“Adios, Señor cochero! May your journey be as pleasant as your coach is slow. Ha, ha, ha!”