“On their own merits modest men are dumb,” and therefore, in the Empecinado’s narrative of our outbreak from the posada, I omit that honourable mention was made of the superior style in which I finished a chasseur, and rendered a second member of the same distinguished corps hors de combat. But decidedly, Mark Antony was the lion of the morning. Before his high deserts, mine sank immeasurably—and from the gentleman with the maimed hand, and his pious confrère. El Cura, we both received flattering tokens of friendship and respect. As to me, there was not a French throat in the peninsula, were it only to be got at, that would not be slit at my solicitation; and had the fosterer made the request, the French detachment would have been decimated without a doubt, to prove the high place he held in the personal esteem of the Empecinado.
We despatched our breakfast, the guerillas prepared to move, called for their horses, and provided a couple for Mark Antony and me, which an hour before had carried different riders—namely, poor La Coste and his aid-de-camp. As we wound down the mountain-road, leading to Villa Moro, the Empecinado pointed out the thickets his followers had occupied, and dwelt with evident satisfaction on the plan and execution of his late successful surprise. And yet, like an unskilful engineer, the mine he had charged for the ruin of another, had nearly caused his own. The alcade and postmaster were false to their country, and in the pay of the invaders. They knew that a French scouting party had secretly advanced within two leagues of Villa Moro, on the night we arrived at the posada—and having gained imperfect information that a guerilla movement was contemplated, they suspected that the late visitors at the village inn were probably connected with the attempt, and despatched our muleteer, to apprise the French commandant that suspicious strangers were in the venta, where they could be easily apprehended.—Acting on this intelligence—correct enough so far as it extended—La Coste executed a rapid night march, which failed in its object, and terminated in disaster and defeat.
Before we reached the little town, the prisoners, with a numerous escort, had crossed the Sedana, directing their march upon the mountains which divide Murcia from Toledo. As we rode slowly down the streets, Vivas greeted us on every side—the women being the loudest in their acclamations. One circumstance I afterwards had cause to recollect. Nearly in the centre of the village, I observed a house of superior appearance, having a court yard in front, with a beech-tree of unusual size, whose spreading branches extended nearly over the whole area of the enclosure. The Empecinado turned a careless glance on the building and the tree.—“That beech will answer”—he muttered—and without another observation, rode forward and entered the yard of the posada.
It was crowded with dismounted partidas, whose horses were picketed and feeding—and in my life I never saw more savage countenances than those which were half hidden and half seen beneath the shadow of their dark-plumed sombreros. In a remote corner, some dozen French voltigeurs, bound two and two, were drawn up. An ominous silence prevailed—in the pale faces of the prisoners, intense anxiety was marked—their guards only conversed in whispers—and it appeared that all were in expectation of some coming event, which seemed dependent on the arrival of the Empecinado.
From the living my eye turned to the direction where I had witnessed the execution of “the Student” and his friend.—The bodies, however, had been removed,—but the spot where they had fallen was readily discovered, for here and there, patches of cement had fallen on the ground, detached from the wall where the bullets of the firing party had struck the brick-work.—Juan Diez cast a gloomy look from the place his friends had met their death to that captive group, whose suspense as to their fate the presence of the dreaded chief would presently remove—and without uttering a word, he entered the well-remembered kitchen of the posada—the curate and El Maneo following, and the fosterer and I with a few partidas bringing up the rear.
It appeared that this singular chamber was destined to present alternately images of life and death, and in quick succession the venta became the house of mourning and of feasting.—On the same table where I had supped with the Empecinado and La Coste, the bodies of the dead guerillas were laid out side by side, the village priest kneeling at their feet, land offering a mass for their souls’ repose. Until the religious duty was performed, the partida leaders observed a respectful silence—but when the Cura rose up and departed, the Empecinado addressed his companions:—
“You have heard,” he said, “the dying injunction of our lost comrade, when he confided to me the sacred duty of executing vengeance on those who murdered him. That hour is come, and ere high noon, blood shall be repaid with blood. To those without, their doom shall be speedily communicated; and on the same spot, and by the same means by which our brethren perished, their slayers shall be slain. So much for retribution on the enemy. Another task is to be performed—greater criminals remain—and justice sternly demands her victims. Diego,” he continued, pulling out his watch, and turning to one of the partidas, who seemed to follow his movements as an orderly, “Go out—apprise the condemned that in fifteen minutes they will be in eternity. The time is short—the priest must be the busier. Deliver this watch to Juan de Castro; and when this hand stands there—he knows the rest—and then conduct the other prisoners hither.”
He whom the Empecinado had addressed as Diego made no reply, but bowed, and left the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned, and we looked anxiously to the door to discover who the other criminals might be.
The first who presented himself, from dress and appearance, was evidently a hidalgo, or Spanish gentleman. The second bore a lower Stamp, and appertained to the middle order of society. The third, to our unbounded astonishment, was our quondam fellow-traveller, the muleteer. The arms of each prisoner were bound behind his back with a common halter, the end of which the partida, who conducted the criminal, held within his grasp.
On the countenances of the prisoners despair was plainly written; and if one ray of hope still remained unextinguished in their bosoms, the chilling address of Juan Diez would have quenched it.