Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

by Charles James Lever

I was summoned before him on the day of my arrival, and certainly a greater contrast could not have been desired than was the bravery of his costume to the rags of mine. A Spanish hat and feathers, such as is only seen upon the stage, surmounted his great red and carbuncled face; a pair of fiery red moustaches, twisted into two complete circles, with a tail out of them like an eccentric “Q;” a sky-blue jacket covered with silver buttons; tight pantaloons of the same color; and Hessian boots,—made up the chief details of a figure whose unwieldy size the tightness of the dress did not by any means set off to advantage. He wore besides a quantity of daggers, pistols, and stilettos suspended around his person, and a huge Barcelona blade hung by two silver chains from his side, the rattle and jingle of which, as he spoke, appeared to give him the most lively pleasure. I was ordered to stand before a table at which he sat, with a kind of secretary at his side, while he interrogated me as to who I was, whence I came, the object of my journey, and so forth. My account of myself was given in the very briefest way I could devise,—totally devoid of all coloring or exaggeration, and, for me, with a most singular avoidance of the romantic; and yet, to my utter discomfiture, from the very announcement of my name, down to the last incident of my journey, he characterized every statement by the very short and emphatic word “a lie,” desiring the secretary to record the same in his “Ledger,” as his own firm conviction; “and add,” said he, solemnly, “that the fellow is a spy from the States of North America,—that he probably belonged to some exploring party into our frontier,—and that he will most certainly be hanged whenever the smallest offence is proved against him.” These benign words were most royally spoken, and I made my acknowledgments for them by taking off my tattered and greasy cap and, with a most urbane bow, wishing him health and happiness for half a century to come, to pronounce similar blessings upon many others.

The bystanders did look, I confess, somewhat terrified at my impromptu courtesy; but Salezar, upon whom my rags, and my grotesque appearance generally, produced a rather amusing effect, laughed heartily, and bade them give me something to eat. The order, simple and intelligible as it was, at least to me, seemed to evoke the strangest signs of surprise and astonishment, and not unreasonably; for, as I afterwards came to know, no Lazarus eat of the crumbs which fell from this “rich man's table,” while from the poor herd of the settlers not a crust nor a parched pea could be expected, as they were fed by rations so scantily doled out as barely to support life. The order to feed me was therefore issued pretty much in the same spirit which made Marie Antoinette recommend the starving people to eat “brioche.” As no one was to be found, however, bold enough to express a doubt as to the facility of the measure, I was led away in silence.

A very animated little discussion arose in the street as to what I was to get, where to have it, and who to give it,—difficulties which none seemed able to solve by any explanation save the usual Mexican one of “Quien sabe?” or “Who knows?”—having uttered which in accents of very convincing embarrassment, each went his way, leaving me standing with an old mule-driver, the only one who had not delivered himself of this speech.

Now, it chanced that the well from which the village derived its name of “La Noria” had originally been worked by two mules, who having died off, their places were supplied by two miserable asses of the prairie breed,—creatures not much bigger than sheep, and scarcely stronger. These wretched beasts had been for years past stimulated to their daily labor by the assiduous persecutions of a fierce English bull-dog, who with bark and bite made their lives a very pretty martyrdom. Either worn-out by his unremitting exertions, or that asses' flesh (of which, from their hocks and hind quarters generally, he freely partook) disagreed with him, the animal sickened and died, leaving the poor Mulero to his own unaided devices to drive the donkeys round the charmed circle. I believe that he did all that mere man was capable of,—in fact, in everything save using his teeth he imitated closely the practices of the illustrious defunct. But asses though they were, they soon discovered that the “great motive principle” was wanting, and betook themselves to a far easier and more congenial mode of doing the day's work.

Now, the Mulero was a man of thought and reflection, and it occurred to him that if asses, however inadequately, could yet, in some sort, perform the functions of mules, there was no reason why a man, even a very poor-looking and ragged one, should not replace a bull-dog. There was that hungry, half-starved look about me, too, that vouched my temper would not be of the sweetest; and he eyed me with the glance of a connoisseur. At last Mijo—for such was he called—made the proposal to me in all form, explaining that my predecessor had had his rations allowed him like a colonist, and was entitled to sleep under cover at the house of his former mistress, La Senhora Dias, “who,” he added, with a sly wink, “was my countrywoman.” Well knowing a Mexican never boggles at a lie, no matter how broad and palpable, I took no notice of what I at once concluded to be impossible, but proceeded to inquire as to the precise functions I might be expected to perform in my canine capacity.

“A mere nothing,” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders; “we harness the beasts at daybreak,—say three o'clock; by eight the water is all up; then you can sleep or amuse yourself till four of the afternoon, when the Commandante Salezar likes to have cool water for his bath,—that only takes an hour; then you are free again till night closes in.”

“And what then?” asked I, impatiently.

“You have your rounds at night.”

“My rounds! where, and what for?”

“Against the prairie wolves, that now and then are daring enough to come down into the very settlement, and carry off kids and lambs,—ay, and sometimes don't stop there.”