Chata and Chinita: A Novel

by Laura Preston

Almost hourly his perturbation of mind was increased by the report of some fresh name upon the list of the sick. With a faith as profound as their own in the decoctions of herbs and roots used by the village quacks, and a superstitious respect for the alleged virtues of blessed relics and candles, and even for amulets of less sacred renown, he went from hut to hut, endeavoring to propitiate the favor of Heaven by charitable deeds,—thus perhaps gaining for himself a more personal affection than the mere clannish regard which he in a measure shared with the actual proprietors of the vast estate, but which was not strong enough to insure him against the wit or malice of the dependent yet utterly indifferent and irresponsible host he attempted to govern. A doctor had been sent for, and also a priest; but neither appeared,—the priest perhaps because the last one, who had but lately left there, had given accounts of Doña Isabel’s proceedings little likely to be acceptable to the Church. This added to the perplexities of Don Rafael.

In the midst of them he was one day accosted by Tomas, the husband of Florencia, who in tones of genuine distress, which for the time gave pathos to his usual drunken whine, bewailed the sickness of his wife, and related how, spurning his care, she called vainly upon her Uncle Pedro (not a day’s luck had befallen them since he had left them), and upon the Señorita Chinita (praying his grace’s pardon for mentioning one whom the Señora Doña Isabel herself had chosen to be a lady), to come and give her a cup of cold water,—as if he, Tomas, himself had not spilled over her a jar of honeyed pulque in the vain effort to pour a draught down her parched throat. It was plain to see that the woman was doomed, and that it was for her the corpse-candles had been lighted.

“The corpse-candles!” echoed Don Rafael,—for he well knew the popular superstition at Tres Hermanos, that when the burial lights were to burn in the great house, their spectral counterfeits were first seen in the ancient dwelling where the spirits of the early possessors of the hacienda still guarded treasures, which awaited some daring and fortunate claimant in a descendant who should combine their faith with a tenacity of purpose and an untiring energy worthy the riches that had eluded their own weak and inconstant efforts. Had indeed the conclave of shades gathered to welcome another unsuccessful toiler among them? Don Rafael shuddered and crossed himself, and wondered that there was no news of Doña Isabel. He gave Tomas a silver piece, and told him that it was not for Florencia, or even for his own mother, that the corpse-lights of the Garcias would burn blue, and sent him away comforted.

An hour later, through the medium of the fiery liquors distilled from the agave, Tomas had so far strengthened his courage that he forgot the corpse-lights altogether, until he saw them again at midnight glimmering in the distance, not only behind the hacienda walls, but fitfully in the darkness of the middle distance. He crossed himself, as he fancied he caught at intervals glimpses of spectral bearers. His comrade on the watch jested at the fears that he opined transformed the soft brilliancy of the large and brilliant firefly into the light of ghostly candles; and Tomas was content to yield to the soporific charm of the mescal, rather than contest the matter with his drowsy comrade,—who, with a regularity which custom made invariable, at certain intervals awoke and emitted the shrill whistle that proclaimed that the sleepers of Tres Hermanos were safe beneath his vigilant care.

Just at dawn the man straightened himself suddenly before the rampart against which he had been leaning, gazed over the landscape with keen apprehension, and uttered a faint cry of consternation. The sandy line between the hacienda gates and the village had become a living one. Whence had the figures stolen? There they stood motionless, horse and man. The watchman stooped and shook his unconscious comrade. “Mother of Jesus!” he cried; “your corpse-lights were in the hands of living men. They are here! they are here! Ah, they are knocking upon the doors! That fool Felipe is turning the key in the lock! Up! Up!” At the same moment his whistle sounded shrilly, and the crack of his rifle upon the air woke the slumbering tenants of the assaulted house.

Too late! the unwary gatekeeper was surprised; the heavy doors were forced open, the courts in an instant were full of armed men, and Don Rafael, half dressed, staggering from his scarce tried slumbers, was seized by a half-dozen soldiers, while a voice he well knew, though it came as if from the dead, and knew to be that of a man who was as inflexible in act as unscrupulous in purpose, exclaimed,—

“How now, Don Rafael? Doña Isabel Garcia has at last showed her true colors. It is for Gonzales and the Liberals the men and treasure of Tres Hermanos have been accumulating! What, nothing for her Mother the Church? Ah, it is the old story,—nothing for those of her own household!”

The unwelcome intruder glanced around him with the air of one familiar with, yet inimical to, his surroundings; he laughed as he dropped the point of his sword upon the brick pave, and his spurred heel rang upon the stone step. Yet a close observer might have noticed a false note in the light and scornful tone, as though some poignant memory troubled his present purpose; and it was with a half evasive though still a threatening glance, that he lifted his eyes to encounter those of the administrador, who stood a disordered and helpless but resolute prisoner upon the steps above him.

At the sound of voices and the tramp of men, Chata had run hastily out from the room of Doña Feliz, whose illness had approached a crisis. The press of men prevented her from reaching Don Rafael, who imperatively signed to her to retreat. Still she would have dared much to reach him; but catching a glimpse of the triumphant countenance of the man at the foot of the stairs, she drew back, covered her face with her hands and fled precipitately,—in fear for herself perhaps, but more with an instinctive feeling that her presence endangered rather than helped her foster-father. That the General José Ramirez had entered Tres Hermanos in a mood to seize any pretext to assume toward it and its people the rôle of an injured and desperate man, was to be seen at a glance. The very soldiers had already divined as much, and were leading their horses and mules to drink at the fountain, and invading the arbor and lower rooms; the sound of their jests and laughter was mingling with the crash of the great flower-pots, carelessly pushed from their stands, and the sharp crack of jars of the quaint black and gilded ware of Guadalajara, which ornamented the corridors.

Chata re-entered the room of the sick woman, with pallid face and lips, and eyes expanding with a terror such as the mere sight of the imminent destruction of material things alone could not have occasioned. Terrible had been the tales she had heard of houses laid waste and property destroyed; yet even when the horrors seemed about to be repeated around her, she felt that she could have endured them bravely as among the chances of war had not this invasion brought to her an intensely dreaded and peculiar danger. She passed the group of alarmed and excited women who gathered at the bedside, uttering exclamations of terror, and kneeling at the head of the couch she clasped in her own the hand of the unconscious Doña Feliz.