Los gringos; or, An inside view of Mexico and California

by H. A. Wise

My coach companions were pleasant fellows—there was a padre, two mining agents, a gentlemanly young Mexican officer who had been adjutant to Valencia, at the battle of Churubusco, and beside me sat a gentleman possessing a remarkably handsome face and person, with the loss of his right arm. He was French, Mons. Ribaud; he had been many years in the country—was intimately associated with the leading chiefs and revolutions of Mexico—had fought desperately, bore the marks of honorable wounds, and was a man of much military experience and acknowledged bravery; but latterly, owing to strong personal hostility existing between him and Santa Anna, he had not been employed in battles of the North or valley of Mexico. I found Monsieur Ribaud delightful in conversation, and he related to me many adventures that had befallen him during his long residence in the republic. On alighting from the coach, I attended him to the commandante's, where my passport was properly considered and countersigned, and an aide-de-camp kindly volunteered to be my guide to the mint of the English directory. Here I was presented to the superintendent, Mr. Jones, an American, from Connecticut, who appeared pleased to meet a countryman, and showed me over the establishment.

The machinery was of the most primitive kind—the stamping process worked by hand, with a lateral wooden beam acting upon a perpendicular screw; at each end of the beam there was attached a small rope, pulled by four men, with an aperture in the floor sufficiently large to admit a man, just within arm's length of the stamp, who was employed placing smooth coins beneath the dies—one would naturally suppose at the imminent risk of having his finger and thumb nipped off at every half revolution of the lever; but practice renders the operative skilful at the manipulation, and the screw descends, makes the impression, which is as regularly displaced by the smooth dollar and ready fingers of the man below. There were two of these apparatus, and they were only able to coin about thirty thousand pieces in twenty-four hours. The contrivance is surely a bad one, very tedious and expensive. The coiners received seven-eighths of a dollar per thousand, and instances of dishonesty were rarely known. The dies were of English manufacture, but the reason why Mexican money presents such a rough and unfinished appearance, is purely owing to their government, who insist upon the impressions being facsimiles of those heretofore coined at their own mints.

The smelting process, the rolling, nipping, and milling machines, were all much behind the age, and although the silver mines were producing more than ever before known, and more than, at the period of my visit, could by any possibility be coined, yet the directory have taken no measures to introduce the valuable and beautiful labor-saving improvements now in operation in Europe and the United States, where the same work could be accomplished by fewer persons, executed certainly at infinitely less expense, and with far greater facility and despatch.

I saw vast piles of pure metal in the vaults, and uncountable masses of dollars. Before leaving, I was introduced to Mr. Bruff, treasurer to the institution, who, with Mr. Jones, treated me with every attention and civility.

Our Fonda de la diligencia was well kept, commodious and respectable; we sat down to the ordinary as a multitude of sweet-sounding bells were ringing and chiming away with their brazen throats for evening vespers, and after partaking of a Frenchified Mexican dinner, I sallied out for a walk. My companion knew the town, but in wandering about the steep angular elevations, I never dared to look up without catching hold of a balcony or leaning against a wall, fearful of becoming dizzy, and tumbling down somewhere.

Entering the gran sociedad, we passed through a long suite of bright saloons—nearly suffocated by cigar smoke, or deafened by the incessant clicking of billiard balls—when we came to the monté and loto rooms. Here were grouped around a dozen different tables hundreds of players, from the plumed hats and shining lace of officers, to the mean dirty serapas of soldiers and leperos; all, however, earnestly intent marking with grains of corn the numbers on the cards, as they were yelled forth by the loto man, who was seated on a raised platform at one end of the hall, watching the little ivory spheres as they dropped one by one out of a cylindrical box revolving before him. Further on were the monteros at work—with heaps of gold and silver piled around—with eager faces, compressed lips, and glittering eyes absorbed in the intense interest of the game—not a word or gesture save the dull monotonous voice of the dealers, like to the tolling of a bell—Juégo señores! se va! with eyes that never winked and lids rigid as sheet-iron. The cards were pulled slowly and carefully one from the other, until the game was decided, when took place the rattling chink of coins, with maybe the deep uttered carajo! of some unlucky wight who has lost a last stake; yet even he pursues the easy dignity of his race, rolls and lights a cigarrillo, draws his cloak around him, raises his sombrero gracefully, and with a polite Hasta mañana señores! disappears from the table.

While moving about the apartments, my comrade pointed out two young men in the Mexican uniform of captains, who were deserters from the American army; one had been a lieutenant, named Sullivan; both bore the marks of dissipation in unmistakable lines around their faces.

We again touched our hats, an invariable sign of courtesy, religiously practised by all civilized beings on entering or leaving a public assemblage, and walked into the street. We took a sort of corkscrew promenade for a little space, when, by some strange flight of footsteps, we found ourselves on the pavement of a triangular platform. Like to the frame of a convex mirror, encasing a sheet of blue moonlit sky—lay before, and as it were, trembling and tottering above us—one of the many remarkable and scenic views of Guanajuato. Full in front against the vaulted sky stood a double towered church, with dome, spires and windows glistening like a transparency, then circling around were bright, gay-colored dwellings, with lights dancing from casement to casement, while each separate cornice, balcony and window, threw back to the silver moon a thousand sparkling reflections—all admirably contrasted with the sombre shadows of the deep gorge below. The scene was truly beautiful, and when within a few feet of our position, the full soft tones of a piano came thrilling through the still night, and a female voice rose high and sweetly, "ah!" cried my friend, "there's a deal to live for yet;" and we retraced our windings to the inn.

We were aroused at the first cock-crow, to take our seats in the diligence; and rattling out of the city by the road we came, mounted a steep eminence, when, gaining a flat sandy region, we soon lost sight of Guanajuato. During the forenoon we passed through a number of fine populous towns. At Irapuato, M. Ribaud and his friend left us. In Salamanca, where we stopped to bait and change horses, a number of beggars surrounded the coach, and in one I at once detected the pure Milesian brogue and visage. He was whining and limping about, with a tattered bat and stick, imploring alms in the most ludicrous attempts at the Castilian tongue. "Why, Pat, you're a deserter," said I, from the top of the vehicle. "Who siz that?" quoth he, evidently startled. Forgetting his infirmities, clapping on his sombrero, and clenching the stick in readiness for a fight, or flight, as he peered among the crowd; and stepping up to a miserable leper, whose face had been painfully stereotyped into a broad grin, he poked him sharply in the ribs, and roared out, "Ye lie, ye baste! I was sick in the hospital, and the Gineral tuk me aff in his own carridge." Here, Pat, I'm your man! "Ah' is it there ye are, Liftinint? you're a pacock ov a boy! will ye give us a rial?" No! but if you chance to be caught by the Yankees, you'll get a rial's worth of "hearty-chokes and caper-sauce," I replied, going through a little pantomime with heels and neck, for his especial benefit. "No, be jasus! thim Harney blaggards will niver choke me while the Dons is so ginerous." This was the last I saw or heard from Pat.

We rolled rapidly along all day, in great trepidation concerning robbers, since the same diligence had been plundered for the eight successive days previous. There were four inside, besides my boy and myself. Early in the morning, a small, fierce-looking Yucatanese was savagely bent upon slaying whoever should cross our path, and, by the way, this Don Pancho was a perfect specimen of an ambulating armory—having no less than two brace of holster pistols, a revolver, sword, cuchillo, and his coat pockets filled with enough ammunition to have resisted a siege. The two last and critical posts were at hand, and together we mounted the box, with weapons in readiness. Whilst changing horses for the last time, the stout cochero—and a very expert whip he was—evinced some curiosity to know whether we intended shooting los compadres—this is polite slang for highwaymen—in case of attack. Being satisfied on that point, he declared he would not draw a rein until we again got inside. The warlike Yucatanese seconded him, protesting, in his cowardice, that he was solely actuated by fears of compromising the good driver; he accordingly entered the vehicle, hinting that his plan would be, on the first onslaught, to ensconce himself under the body of the coach, and rapidly discharge a broadside at the enemy—a mode of tactics I by no means subscribed to. It convinced me, however, that there was collusion between robbers and cochero, to make the most out of their prey, and I unequivocally assured the stout driver, that if he did not lash the beasts upon the first signs of danger, he should go halves with his compadres from the contents of my pistols; moreover, I still persisted in retaining a position on top, in which I was ably seconded by a delicate young French artiste, who volunteered to do his possible, if he could be supplied with arms: thereupon we made a forcible seizure from the stock of the brave Don Pancho. There were but two other passengers, who, not having a dollar in their purses, or a stealable garment on their persons, expressed utter indifference as to the course of events, lit cigars, and crouched beneath the seats.