Mayne Reid: A Memoir of his Life

by Elizabeth Hyde Reid

The following letter from Mayne Reid to the Ohio State Journal in 1882, may be here fitly introduced:

“Sir,—My attention has been called to a letter which lately appeared in some American newspapers headed ‘Mayne Reid’s Mexican War Experiences,’ in which certain statements are made gravely affecting my character and reputation. The writer says that in Pueblao, Mexico, ‘Lieutenant Reid, while reproving one of the men of his company, became very much heated, and ran his sword through the man’s body. The man died the same night.’

“Now, sir, it is quite true that I ran a soldier through with my sword, who soon after died of the wound. But it is absolutely untrue that there was any heat of temper on my part, or other incentive to act, save that of self-defence and the discharge of my duty as an officer. On the day of the occurrence I was officer of the guard, and the man a prisoner in the guard prison—where, indeed, he spent most of his time—for he was a noted desperado, and, I may add, robber, long the pest and terror not only of his comrades in the regiment, but the poor Mexican people who suffered from his depredations, as all who were then there and are still living may remember. Having several times escaped from the guard-house prison, he had that day been recaptured, and I entered the cell to see to his being; better secured. While the manacles were being placed upon his wrists—long-linked heavy irons—he clutched hold of them, and, rushing at me, aimed a blow at my head, which, but for my being too quick for him, would have been dealt me with serious if not fatal effect. He was a man of immense size and strength, and as all knew, regardless of consequences. He had been often heard to boast that no officer dare put him in irons, and threaten those who in the line of their duty had to act towards him with severity. Still, when I thrust out, it was with no intention to kill, only to keep him off, and in point of fact, in his mad rush toward me he impaled himself on my sword.

“The writer of the letter goes on to say: ‘Lieutenant Reid’s grief was uncontrollable. The feeling against him, despite the fact that he had provocation for the act, was very strong in the regiment... If the regiment had not moved with the rest of the army toward Mexico the next day, Lieutenant Reid would have been court-martialled, and might have been shot.’

“In answer to these serious allegations, not made in any malice, I believe, but from misinformation, I have only to say that I was tried by court-martial, and instead of being sentenced to be shot, was ordered to resume command of my company for the forward march upon Mexico. And so far from the feeling being strong against me in the regiment, it was just the reverse, not only in the regiment, but throughout the whole army—the lamented Phil Kearney, commanding the dragoons, with many other officers of high rank, publicly declaring that for what I had done, instead of condemnation I deserved a vote of thanks. This because the army’s discipline had become greatly relaxed during the long period of inaction that preceded our advance into the Valley of Mexico, and we had much trouble with the men—especially of the volunteer regiments. My act, involuntary and unintentional though it was, did something toward bringing them back to a sense of obedience and duty. That I sorrowed for it is true, but not in the sense attributed to me by the newspaper correspondent. My grief was from the necessity that forced it upon me, and its lamentable result. It is some satisfaction to know that the unfortunate man himself held me blameless, and in his dying words, as I was told, said I had but done my duty. So I trust that this explanation will place the affair in a different light from that thrown upon it by the article alluded to.”

In February, 1876, Mr Henry Lee wrote to Captain Mayne Reid for some account of the Mexican axolotl, and received the following answer:

Chasewood, Ross, Herefordshire, February 28, 1876.

My dear Henry Lee,—You ask me to tell you what I know of that strange Protean—the axolotl. Such knowledge as I have is at your service.

First, as to its name; which is a word purely Aztecan. The Spaniards, adopting it, have made some change in the spelling without materially altering the pronunciation. Their form is ajolóte—the final syllable sounded, though with the accent on the penultimate. But, to one unacquainted with Spanish orthoepy, it may be observed that the “j” is pronounced as an aspirated “h”—in short, as the Greek chi—and so also is “x” in the Aztec orthography. The final “tl” of the latter, common to many Aztec and Zapoteque words—as in tepetl (mountain), metatl (millstone), which the Indian lingeringly lets fall from the tip of his tongue—cannot well be symbolised by any exponent of vocal sound in our language. The Spaniards represent it indifferently by “te,” sometimes with the addition of a “c,” thus, metate, Popocatepec. The ajolóte, however, is without the added “c,” and pronounced, as nearly as possible, ah-ho-loát-e, with emphasis on the “loát,” and the terminating “e” barely distinguishable.

So much for the name of the reptile-fish. As to its nature, I fear I can add but little to the information already before the public; though, perhaps, something of its habitat that may be interesting. Your species, of the Brighton Aquarium, dwells in the Laguna de Tezcoco—the largest of six lakes that lie in the Valley of Mexico. An ordinary map will indicate only five: Chalco, Xochimilco, Tezcoco, San Christobal, and Zumpango; and of these alone does Humboldt speak in his “Essai Politique.” But there are in reality six—the sixth called Xaltocan. The two first-named are in the southern section of the valley—which, by the way, is not a valley, but a plain, with a periphery of mountains; an elevated plateau, slightly over 7,000 feet above the sea’s level, the mountain rim around, composed of parallel and transverse sierras of the great Andean Cordillera, having several summits that rise from 8,000 to 10,000 feet higher, with two—Popocatepec and Ixticihuatl—that carry the eternal snow. Chalco and Xochimilco, as observed, occupying a southern position on this plain, are both fresh water lakes—if lakes they can be called, for at the present time their surface is concealed by a thick sedge of tulares—various species of aquatic plants—whose roots, entwined, form a floating coverture termed cinta, which is in places so close and tough as to permit de-pasturage by horses and horned cattle. Here and there only are spots of clear water of very limited extent, while the vast morass, miles upon miles, is traversed by three or four canals—in the language of the country, acalotes—partly natural, but for the most part hewn out of the sedge, and kept open by the passage of the Indian boats and canoes navigating them. It was upon sections of this cinta that the famed chinampas, or “Floating Gardens,” were constructed, and not, as erroneously stated by Humboldt, and other writers following him, on rafts of timber and sticks. I may here interpolate a fact not generally, if at all, known to Europeans: that these chinampas (of which I hope some day to give an account) are in existence at the present time.