The Guerillas had halted there for half a day, and furnished themselves with provisions. A French regiment, hot from Bayonne, and eager for plunder, marched in, as Mina's men marched out; and at an ambuscade upon the road, received a most annoying fire from the Guerillas, without being able to pursue them. The regiment immediately commenced the work of destruction in the village:—the houses were sacked and set on fire; the inhabitants murdered; and, amongst the general ruin, was the widow's cottage. Diego's uncle was sabred in his own house, and the innocent girl, who was all to the absent muleteer, still more cruelly treated. Her poor father, in protecting her from the brutal violence of the soldiers, was shot through the head, and the unhappy girl herself died in three weeks after at Escotia, a village in the Basque mountains, whither she and the mother of Diego fled. Her eyes were closed by the widow's hand, and her last words were her “dear, dear Diego!”
Shortly after the sacking of the village the Muleteer returned. He had deserted with great difficulty from the southern army, taking with him his favourite mule; and was pacing in the highest possible spirits, singing along the road from Tolosa, when the tops of the houses, amongst which his early and happy days were passed, met his eye. It was in the evening. The sight of his own Joanna's home, and of his beloved mother's cottage, made him urge on his mule. Light was his heart and light his song; he was then about to enjoy, as he thought, the happiest hours of his existence. It was quite dark when he arrived;—he rode up to the house of his Joanna; there was no light—no sound: he entered trembling, for there was no door, and his brain reeled as he beheld in the twilight the ruins of the house. He ran to his mother's cottage, this was no better; distracted then he entered the village;—all was desolate,—no living creature but a wild dog crossed his way. He entered his uncle's house, and there upon the floor lay the murdered body, naked and bruised; he lifted it up, and by the grey light from a sashless window recognized the features of his uncle. The truth now flashed on him: this scene of horror was only one of those which he was forced to witness while with the army from which he had deserted. For a few moments he was senseless, but this only preceded the tempest of his mind;—he ran back to his mule, mounted, and galloped to Rinteria, about a league distant. Here the first persons he met outside the town were two French soldiers; in a moment he was off his mule, and before time for a thought had passed, they both lay bleeding at his feet: he killed them with his cochilio; there was but little noise, for they never spoke. Breathless and raging, he remounted, and rode on to the house of one he had known—a former companion; there he learned the fate of his Joanna,—that both she and his mother were dead. Diego's hands were covered with blood; and as he cursed the authors of Ernani's destruction, he exultingly showed to his friend the red drops of retribution, and told him that he had already struck down two of the invaders to the earth. The young man, to whom he confessed this circumstance, was the person who afterwards informed his mother of it. He declared that such was the state of Diego's mind, when he came to him at Renteria, that he would have destroyed himself, but for the satisfaction he felt in having killed the Frenchmen. I conversed with this young man at Renteria afterwards, for he returned to his home when the British arrived at Passages.
The alarm was now beginning to spread. Diego's friend was not less the enemy of the French than himself. Mina was in the mountains. Two excellent horses were in the stable of Diego's friend, belonging to a French colonel: these, with a brace of pistols and two swords, they seized during the absence of the servants; and, together with Diego's mule, forded the river, and took a by-way across the hill, towards the Tolosa road; the favourite mule was turned loose in a fertile valley, and the next day both the travellers came up with Mina's party, which they joined with a shout of “Viva Espagna!”
Many a Frenchman fell by the hand of Diego—he had lost all; he only lived to avenge the destruction of his home and his happiness. No Guerilla was before him in the attack,—he was the first in, and the last out of the battle: and if gratified revenge could compensate for the ruin of tender affections, Diego was amply satisfied. But no, nothing could appease him,—the thought of his misery burned like Ætna's fires within his breast,—no blood could extinguish it. With only seven or eight others, he has been known to have surprised a party of French soldiers three times that number. Often has he watched their movements dressed as a simple muleteer, and when any favourable opportunity has occurred, he would hasten back to his companions, buckle on his sword, and return, thus reinforced, to attack any straggling band of the enemy drinking in a wine house, perhaps, or otherwise off their guard. To set fire to the house, and then dash in upon their victims and slaughter them, before they were aware of their danger, was a very usual mode of proceeding with Diego and his associates; after which exploits the Guerillas would disappear as rapidly as they had come.
At one of these attacks the Muleteer met his death. His friend was beside him when he fell, and from him I heard the fight described. The Guerillas consisted of between fifty and sixty prisoners, and had received information that some mules loaded with valuables, and escorted by a company of French infantry, were on their way from Bilboa to Bayonne, and had not yet passed a defile in the mountains about two leagues and a half from the former city. Through this defile runs a narrow river close to the high road. On one side of this road and river rises a rugged mountain, whose steep sides are abruptly broken in several parts, and at others hang out over the depth below. In various shelves of the height are to be seen full-grown trees, the roots of which stretch out from the broken earth, and serve for the support of creeping and climbing underwood. This bold mountain continues unintersected for at least half a mile; and as the opposite side of the road beneath is equally flanked by rocks, the invaders, in forcing this passage, were wholly at the mercy of the enemy above: and before they took the precaution of securing the heights, whole divisions were often cut off by a handful of men, who would deliberately march on with the French column, firing upon it as often as they could load, doing the greatest execution.
To this pass, then, hastened the Guerilla party, and arrived about an hour before the mules and escort appeared in sight. As soon as the French had advanced well into the defile, the Guerillas appeared above on the heights, dismounted, and opened fifteen muskets upon them. The fire was returned, but with no effect; for one step backwards brought the Guerillas under cover of the craggy verge of the height. The French increased their speed to double quick time, but the Guerillas kept up such a fire upon them, that twenty men out of about seventy, were strewed along the road, dead or wounded. The Guerillas now laid down their muskets, mounted, and fell in with the remainder of their own men, in order to get before the French, and thus finish the business by a charge. They trotted on, and headed the escort very soon. They now descended to the road, and lay in ambush about a quarter of a mile from the enemy. A projecting arm of a rock, covered with trees, concealed them from the French, whose column was now passing, and in a moment, a most desperate charge from the Guerillas broke them up. The mules took fright and increased the confusion, while the sabres of the Spaniards finished in a very short time the bloody affair. Diego's horse was in the midst of the French, and there fell with him, wounded. He fought on foot with both dagger and sabre, and had just brought to his feet a French sergeant, when one of the men who lay near him, wounded from his sabre, levelled his piece at Diego, and shot him through the breast. He was the only one his brave party lost, while every single Frenchman was either killed by them or the peasants, who gladly finished what the Guerillas began.
This was the fate of the unhappy Diego. He did not die for an hour after he fell. His comrades carried him into the mountains, and there he breathed his last. But before he died, he took from his pocket the prayer-book and the silk handkerchief which his mother gave him the day he parted from her, and consigned them, as his last gift of friendship, to his companion, with a request that he would offer a mass for his poor mother's soul, and never cease to pursue the French with vengeance while they had a foot in Spain. Then kissing the lock of hair, which he held, he said “Do not take this out of my hand when I am dead, but bury it with me: it is the hair of my own dear Joanna.”
His wish was obeyed, and he was buried just as he lay, under a wild chestnut-tree, where a Frenchman had never trod. Peaceful be the bed of the Guerilla for ever! May the invader never disturb the grass that waves over his dust!
When the poor widow had told me the short history of her hapless son, she went to a little box, and with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, brought me the handkerchief and the prayer-book;—“There,” says she, “is all I have left of my poor son!” She staggered with grief and debility as she walked across the room with the treasure of her heart. I took them with reverence, and concealed my tears by examining them; for I will not deny it, I could not help weeping. The poor woman sat down, and rocked herself to and fro in silent grief, while I turned over the leaves of the prayer-book without knowing why I did so. At this moment my servant entered the room to prepare supper, and I left the house to indulge in my thoughts for half an hour alone amongst the ruins of Ernani.