“Charles. Be not afraid of danger or of death; for over us presides a destiny, which cannot be controlled. We all hasten to the fatal day: die we must, whether upon a bed of down, the field of battle, or the scaffold; one of these must be our lot.”—The Robbers.
A few minutes elapsed, when a movement among the soldiers near the door attracted my attention, and Colonel La Coste, attended by several officers of inferior rank, entered the kitchen of the posada. The commander was a soldier of the republican school; a hale, stout, man of sixty: one who, like the best of the French officers, had risen by merit from the ranks, without family, descent, wealth, or education. The honest boast of La Coste was, that he had been the architect of his own fortunes, and had raised himself to distinction. The colonel was highly esteemed as a soldier; but, if the times when his career commenced are remembered, it maybe readily supposed that La Coste was loose in his moral principles, cold to human suffering, and indifferent, provided the end were gained, as to the means that he employed in attaining it. The sternest hearts have generally some softer point that unites them to their fellow men, and the rude soldiers was no exception. That solitary place in his affections was occupied by the orphan of his sister; Henri le Ferre was the sole object of the love and ambition of the old republican—and, dead to others, the young lieutenant of chasseurs was dearer to that cold-hearted soldier than all the world beside. In the career of life, the most unpitying do not escape mortal visitations, which force the heart to feel. Henri had perished in the recent affair—and the misery that he himself had probably inflicted upon others, was about to fall on the head of one, whom sympathy for human suffering had never turned from a purpose which he conceived that duty pointed out.
When he entered the apartment, he appeared excited and out of temper, muttering to himself as he approached the fire, and then, turning short round, he drew himself up haughtily between the manacled guerillas and myself.
“So,” he said, sarcastically, “Captain St. Pierre, methinks, to-night you have had but indifferent success. Five soldiers lost, the great brigand escaped, and these paltry scoundrels, fit only for hanging in terrorem at a market-place, the sole fruits of a bloody, and, as it has turned out, a bootless expedition! How could this possibly occur?—a squadron of chasseurs, checked, defeated, by some half dozen—call them not soldiers—but banditti! Ay, Captain St. Pierre, defeated! Has not the only captive we aimed at escaped ye? Except as examples to the peasantry, these fellows are not worth the snapping of a flint—or value of a halter. Is not this failure—defeat?”
“Colonel La Coste,” returned the captain of chasseurs, “much of what you say is true. We counted with too great confidence upon surprise, and overlooked the danger that lies in desperation. It has, indeed, turned out a sorry promenade—little gained, and much, unfortunately, lost!”
“Where did the brigands escape to?—where did they seek shelter?—why were they not pursued?” continued Colonel La Coste, speaking with breathless rapidity.
“The Empecinado, with one companion, have fairly got away,” replied Captain St. Pierre; “the other three are in your presence.”
“The other three!” exclaimed Colonel La Coste, contemptuously—“Bah!—what matters the capture of these small scoundrels, when the greater bandits have escaped? have they indeed got off? and how, in the devil’s name, did they effect it?”
“I would half believe, through the especial assistance of the black gentleman. To steel and lead they seemed impervious, or they never could have been proof against one hundred shots and sword-cuts. By Heaven! their escape appears miraculous! They gained the river, plunged into the swollen stream, and under a biting fire, while bullet after bullet struck the water before and behind, they reached the opposite bank unhurt, scrambled up the bank, and were instantly lost in the thick cover of yonder cork-wood.”
“Were they not followed, hunted, pursued? Is Henri after them?” inquired the colonel, with impatience; but the question was unanswered. “Speak, St. Pierre!—where is my nephew?—close on the brigands’ footsteps?”
The captain shook his head.
“What mean ye?” exclaimed the old republican; “Is he hurt, or wounded?”
“Worse—”
“Worse!—what, dead?”
“Dead!” was the suppressed reply.
“How?—when?—where? I know the worst;—go on, St. Pierre.”
“Colonel La Coste, my heart bleeds to tell the story. Henri, your adopted son, and our beloved companion, is, indeed, no more! The felon leader, who has escaped us for the present, singled your nephew out and stabbed him!”
“Great God!—Henri!—my son, my hope, my pride, fallen—and thus to fall! Die in the court-yard of an obscure posada, and perish ingloriously like a peasant in a drunken brawl—Henri! Henri!”
A long and melancholy pause succeeded.
“Where is my nephew?” exclaimed the old man, suddenly.
“Here,” returned Captain St. Pierre, and his voice faltered.
“Well, let me see thee, Henri, even though it be in death.”
When I had been removed into the posada, I was for some time insensible to everything that passed, and, unknown to me, the body of the young lieutenant had been carried in, deposited on a bench immediately beside me, and covered with a military cloak. Some of the chasseurs who stood between me and the dead officer, now moved aside, and others brought lights, while the covering should be removed, and the veteran “look his last” upon the only being whom he loved.
In post mortem experience I was a novice. Of course, like every Irish boy who made his entrée on the world five and forty years ago, I had seen a criminal hanged, and a gentleman shot occasionally. To do him justice, old Doctor Dozey, “our very learned and approved good master,” was an indulgent and considerate divine; and as the school was in an assize town, where hanging-matches and affairs of honour came off frequently, we were always, on such occasions, favoured with a half-holiday, to enable us to have a sly peep at the proceedings. Although I had often been “in at the death,” yet with the exception of Mr. Sloman, I had never seen the defunct after this mortal coil had been shuffled off; and hence the appearance of the countenance, where death had been violent, was new to me. I turned my eyes to the bench where the body of the Frenchman lay, and, for many a day afterwards, the dead man’s face was painfully recollected.
I was told that the departed soldier had been considered particularly handsome, but looking at his countenance after death, I never could have imagined it. Its expression was that of one whose spirit had departed in intense agony, and every feature was distorted. I saw his companions shudder as they looked upon the corpse; and, after one hurried glance, the old colonel turned his eyes away, and signed to a chasseur to replace the cloak, which had been removed to permit him to view the body of his fwourite nephew.
“Now for another duty,” the old man muttered. “Place these prisoners before me!” and, drawing himself stiffly up with his back to the fire, he remained in gloomy meditation, while the guerillas and myself were conducted from our benches, and drawn up in front of a judge from whom, were the countenance an index of the heart, little mercy could be hoped for.
“Who are ye?” he said, addressing himself to me; “you wear an English uniform—stolen from the living, or stripped from the dead?—say which.”
“Neither,” I returned, boldly; “mine is the dress that my rank entitles me to wear—I am a British officer.”
“And wherefore the companion of brigands? Why are you the confederate of these murderers?”
“I am not their companion,” was the reply; “I knew not who or what they were. By accident I met them here last night.”
“You knew them not, and yet you ate with them, drank with them, fought with them.”
“I did.”
“You shot a French chasseur, and cut down a second, as I am informed.”
“It is true; these things I did in order to effect escape.”
“Then, did you not meet these bandits here by previous appointment? Are you not a spy—ha?” exclaimed the colonel.
“No—this posada lay directly in my route, as I was bound for Valencia. Chance brought these men and myself together, and I knew nothing of their designs, their names, nor their occupations. On this head, my guide, the muleteer, will satisfy you.”
At this period of the proceedings, Captain St. Pierre whispered something in the colonel’s ear. It was a corroboration, on his part, that the statement I made was true. The colonel nodded, and thus continued:—
“My friend, St. Pierre, confirms your story. I have had the honour of meeting your countrymen in the field, and they have taught me to respect them. The English are stout and gallant soldiers; and at a soldier’s hands are entitled to that honourable consideration which the brave give and receive from each other. But these brigands with whom you have unhappily associated,—these murdering, dastardly, Spaniards———”
“False, by the Virgin!” exclaimed the younger partida of the two: “No dastards, robber!—Look out in yonder court-yard—you’ll see there a few mementos of a Spaniard’s vengeance; and if you lift yon cloak again, you will find, that though he departed somewhat hurriedly, the Empecinado did not forget to leave behind a token that will bring him occasionally to your remembrance.”
“The Empecinado!” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Ay, Juan Diez!” was the answer.
“Hell and furies! Mount every man; cross the bridge, Captain St. Pierre; surround the cork wood—they may still be lurking there. I’ll give you twenty voltigeurs. Carry them en croupe. They will beat the coverts that horsemen cannot enter. Bring back, dead or living, the enemy of the emperor—the murderer of Henri Lefevre!” The guerillas laughed scornfully. “The cork-wood!—Will Juan Diez stay there to listen to the nightingales?” said the younger.
The order was instantly obeyed; the horses of the chasseurs resaddled, and, with a dozen picked sharpshooters to scour such portions of the wood as might be impenetrable to the cavalry, Captain St. Pierre rode off to recover a reputation he considered tarnished by his recent failure; and, dead or living, bring back to his commander that dreaded chief, the Empecinado.
The preparations for this new expedition consumed nearly half an hour; the Spaniards sullenly resumed their seats; I sunk into sombre meditations; and in short, everybody, captives and captors, appeared superlatively unhappy. It was a relief when the door opened, and Colonel La Coste entered the kitchen of the posada, accompanied by a person who bore the appearance of a civic magistrate. Once more the Spaniards were placed before their judge; and the Alcade, for such the stranger proved, assented silently to all the French commandant decreed.
“I know not, nor ask your names—you are rebels to the king, and false to France and your country!”
“A lie! by the immortal Judge!” boldly returned the elder partida.
“True to Spain, ay, true to the last. Pshaw!—Abridge this mockery. We are doomed—we know it. Speak the sentence, and let the spirit, as it was ever, still be free!”
“You know all the circumstances of this case already,” observed Colonel La Coste, addressing himself to the Alcade: “these men are traitors. What penalty should be exacted for treason and rebellion?” The Spaniard looked confusedly around, turned his eyes aside, and then, in an under tone that scarcely reached the ear, he muttered, “Death!”
Low as the voice was in which the opinion was delivered, it fell upon the ready ear of the younger of the partidas.
“Death!” he exclaimed, “and doomed to that dread penalty by a countryman?—Countryman!—no, no,—the craven has no country. Live, Julian Lopez, live for a brief time; but let me add the terms on which that wretched existence of thine shall be continued. From the hand that tenders a petition, dread the knife. Reject the food offered thee—it will be drugged. Touch not the wine-cup—it will be poisoned. Well, though thou escape these, a more infamous fate will be reserved for thee: you will perish on a tree; none pitying, and all pouring out execrations as you go along. Some galley-slwe will affix the felon-halter; and when the carrion is committed to mother earth, every true Spaniard as he passes the unholy spot that covers it, will strike his boot upon the clay, and mutter ‘Curses on the ashes of the traitor!’”
“Stop!” cried the commandant. “Advance these criminals;—you guess your doom——”
“Guess?” asked the elder partida; “no, no—to guess would infer uncertainty. We know it well. Thou and I, Jose, shall die as many better patriots have died before us.”
“You are friends of that dark brigand, whom you call the Empecinado?” observed the French commandant.
“It is indeed a proud distinction you confer, in calling us friends of that bold enemy to French oppression.”
“You share his confidence?” continued the colonel.
“Undoubtedly,” returned the elder; “ay, and I believe as much as any living men.”
“You knew his errand here, then?”
“Yes.”
“Name it!”
Both the partidas laughed contemptuously
“You trifle with me, villains! But, by Heaven! I will no longer trifle with you. Cammaran,” he said to a voltigeur, “get your men under arms; throw the gates of the court-yard open; admit the villagers, and prepare for an instant execution. Let twelve files load; we’ll join you in five minutes.”
The officer left the room, and the old soldier thus continued:—
“Time presses: are you prepared to die?” he said, addressing the condemned.
A proud glance from the condemned conveyed the guerillas’ answer to the commandant.
“Would you avert your fate?”
“Willingly!” replied the elder of the two.
“Wherefore? and by what means?” said Colonel La Coste.
“I’ll tell you briefly,” replied the elder: “I am no soldier; I was born on the banks of the Sedana, and inherited a farm my ancestors had tilled for centuries. We lived then in humble opulence. My father died; I succeeded to his small possessions, married as suited my lowly rank, and was as happy as love and contentment can make an humble man. Twice I became a father: need I add that this fond tie bound me still closer to the partner of my home and heart? Your armies overran the country; but for a time the remoteness of our hamlet protected us. Where was the dwelling, however isolated, that at one time or other escaped the fearful visits of your marauders? A foraging party entered our hamlet. They took what they would, and none resisted; they ate, and drank, and plundered—none offered remonstrance or complaint. I was from home—and I tell the tale as it was told me afterwards. Within that solitary hamlet, there lived some of the fairest peasants in Toledo. The morning rose upon them in happy innocence—when it set they were ruined and dishonoured. Maid and matron alike were exposed to licentious brutality. My poor Inez told me the story of her wrongs, and made me swear eternal vengeanee on the villain who had robbed her of her honour. He was the leader of the party, and that enabled me to trace him. Where he went, I followed—ay—followed close as a bloodhound on the trail. Night and day I dogged his steps. When he removed, no matter how distant were his quarters, there did I, his evil genius, appear. Nine months passed, and still I never could strike a certain blow—but he who waits for vengeanee seldom waits in vain. The moment came at last, and in the publie square of Salamanca I stabbed him to the heart. Vengeance was satisfied: and did I then return to my home? I had no home—it was a ruin. My farm was wasted; my cattle taken away; I found my wife a maniac—for insult and cruelty had deprived her of reason. I sought my children—they were beggars, living on the bounty of the charitable. What could I do but swear vengeance anew, and band with those gallant spirits who were in arms against the oppressors of their country. Well, you ask me, would I live? I answer, yes—not that life to me is worth the holding; but for the sake of that poor maniac and her starving orphans—still would I live.”
While he told his simple story the recollection of his wrongs supported him; but the allusion to the sad calamities which French barbarity had entailed upon his wretched family evidently affected him; and I observed that the dark eye which lately flashed defiance was moistened with a tear.
“Spaniard, what wouldst thou give for life?” demanded Colonel La Coste.
“Aught that became an honest man,” was the reply.
“I will name the terms, and then say wilt thou accept them and be free?”
“Speak!” said the guerilla.
“Thou knowest the Empeeinado—thou art in his confidence—his haunts are known to thee;—couldst thou, if at liberty, find him out?”
“Were my foot free upon yonder mountain, I eould within six hours hold Juan Diez by the hand,” returned the condemned.
“Enough. A thousand Napoleons are on his head. Wilt thou place the enemy of France within my power?”
“Never!”
“Think—thy life hangs upon the answer: wilt thou win gold and freedom?” repeated the Frenchman.
“Never!—the word is spoken.”
In a moment the younger Spaniard threw the arm that had remained unshackled around his comrade’s neck.
“Velasquez,” he said, “I doubted thee, and feared that thy courage might fail. Thou hast much to bind thee to life; but is a life of infamy like that false traitor’s,”—and he pointed to the Alcade,—“is such worth holding?—No. But as thou hast addressed this our executioner, so too will I.”
Colonel La Coste knitted his brows together, and the young guerilla thus continued:—
“I am indebted to you; I have escaped the insult offered to my companion, for you did not propose life to me at the expense of faith and honour. Velasquez has told you a sad history—now hear mine. I am a soldier’s orphan—I have no kindred left; for when my only uncle, the good old canon of Seville died, I saw my last relative on earth committed to the grave. I was then a student, and, but for circumstances, would have been, most probably, a monk. You came, and war, and violence, and insult, followed in your footsteps. Day after day I heard the hateful tale of French oppression, until my blood became gall, and I burned to take vengeance on the invaders. The slow and cautious movements of regular warfare were unsuited to a spirit active and ardent as mine; I sought a daring leader, and found him in Juan Diez. For three years I have followed the Empecinado. Would you know more of me?—ask who I am? Mine is a title seeond only to my leader’s—I am ‘The Student,’ Jose Martinez!”
He ceased, as he announced his name. La Coste, the moment that the words w’ere uttered, signed to a chasseur, whispered some secret order, and then, turning to the guerillas, he coldly pronounced their doom.
“The time is short,” he added; “have either of you aught to ask for?”
“I would wish,” replied the elder Spaniard, “to spend a few minutes with a priest.”
“The Curé shall be sent for,” replied the French commandant; “and thou, young man—hast thou no request to make?”
“None from thee!” returned the Student, boldly. “Here! Landlord, fetch me a cup of wine!”
The order was obeyed: and holding the untasted horn in his hand, he thus continued:
“‘Tis the last wine that I shall drink! Tell the Empecinado, also, what was the last pledge that passed the lips of José Martinez!—-’Viva Espana!—Mueran los Franceses!’” * And he emptied the cup to the bottom.
The Cura obeyed the summons of the French commandant, the manacles were removed from the wrists of the captives, and the priest retired to a corner of the kitchen, apart from all besides, to shrive the condemned offender. Scarcely ten minutes passed, before Velasquez rose from his knees, and, with a face that bespoke a perfect resignation to his fate, stepped back to the place where his fellow-sufferer, the Student, was standing, still holding the empty wine-cup in his hand. The Cura motioned Martinez to retire—he obeyed; the shrift was short, and, in five minutes, the Student rejoined his companion in misfortune.
“Are the prisoners ready?” said Colonel La Coste to the priest.
Both the partidas returned a steady—“Yes.”
The Frenchman waved his arm, and, with a voltigeur on either side, the condemned guerillas left the kitchen of the posada for the court-yard.
I followed in the crowd—in fact, I was not regarded as a prisoner. I mingled with the chasseurs, and, in the interest which the coming event occasioned, I seemed to be forgotten altogether. We entered the fatal enclosure—and although the villagers had been summoned to witness the execution, not a dozen of the peasantry were to be seen; and, on their affrighted countenances, horror and indignation were apparent.
In the centre of the court-yard, twenty voltigeurs were drawn up in double files, with ordered arms, and commanded by a lieutenant. A dead wall was directly opposite, at the distance of twelve paces; and thither the Spaniards were conducted by their escort.
Colonel La Coste took his stand on the right of the firing party, some half dozen paces from the subordinate officer that commanded it; and, on either side, the chasseurs and peasantry formed a line of lookers-on.
The Colonel advanced two steps, as the Cura kissed and blessed the sufferers for the last time.
“Wilt thou be free?—you know the terms,” he said, addressing the elder of the partidas.
“No!” was calmly answered.
“Enough!—your blood be on your own head, and not on mine.”
Turning to the second he thus continued:—
“Young man, pause—death is bitter! thou hast many a day of life and happiness before thee, if thou wilt but choose wisely.”
“I have chosen!” was the calm reply. “And now permit me an indulgence—a few last words. I see the faces of deadly enemies around me, and, on the blenched countenances of some dastard Spaniards, who stoop and kiss the foot that presses on their necks, I look in vain for sympathy; but the very walls around me will find a tongue, and the last message of ‘The Student’ will be correctly carried to his friend, the Empecinado. Tell him I died a true and faithful Spaniard. Tell him, that my friend and I were slaughtered in cold blood, and that we expect at his hands ample and immediate vengeance! Proceed!—art thou ready, Velasquez?”
A silent inclination of the head was returned by his fellow-sufferer, to the Student. Colonel La Coste signalled to the officer, and the firing party shouldered arms. A dead silence prevailed, and, at the movement of the muskets, my heart beat wildly as a startled girl. Many of the French soldiery turned pale, and but a very few looked on the scene of death with indifference. The emotions of the peasants were now beyond concealment, and tears and prayers were freely given to the sufferers.
“Are you ready?” inquired the commandant.
The elder Spaniard bowed, while the Student boldly exclaimed, “Ready!”
Colonel La Coste nodded to the lieutenant; at a motion of his sword, the firing party came to the present, and the next moment the fatal word was given—a volley answered it—and Velasquez and his companion dropped dead on the pavement of the court-yard. Hastily, a cloth was thrown over the bleeding bodies, the court-yard was cleared, the soldiers were ordered to rest and refresh themselves, and I returned to the kitchen of the posada, at the same time a guest and prisoner; and, in the same apartment, and within twelve hours,—I supped with the departed, and breakfasted with their executioners—Such is the fortune of war!
“A kinsman is part of a man’s body, of his heart, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.” Waverley.
Those who have been familiarized with warfare, know well, from personal experience, how callous it renders the heart to human suffering. To me these scenes were new—and to witness my fellow-men coolly hurried to eternity, without even the mockery of a trial, had occasioned a sensation too painful and powerful to be overcome. When, therefore, Colonel La Coste and his officers sate down to breakfast, I felt mine, indeed, to be a sorry appetite. The dead guerillas in the courtyard were still before my eyes, and men with whom, in the full pride of youth and health, I had taken my evening meal last night, were now “stark and stiff;” and my morning repast was to be shared with their executioners. I could not forget them; they rose to my imagination like Banquo’s ghost, and completely marred my appetite.
Colonel La Coste, who in his own rough way had played the part of a kindly host, guessed the cause of my depression, and endeavoured to remove it. He had been three years a prisoner in England, and spoke our language tolerably.
“Come, my young friend,” he said, “courage!—‘Tis but the chance of war, and thy thraldom may be short. Think not that Frenchmen do not respect those to whom they are opposed; and while a stern necessity renders example indispensable, they know how to distinguish between the brigand and the soldier. Eat, and muster thy philosophy. When but a little older than thyself, I underwent a protracted captivity—Did I sink into despair? No, faith! A sous-lieutenant, without friends or money, I taxed my wits to make a stand against misfortune—ay, and I succeeded, too. There is in England many a tooth-pick case, the handywork of Colonel La Coste, to which tooth-picks and their cases, the said colonel has been often indebted for a dinner. Think not, that because I inflict just punishment upon brigands, I cannot pay due respect to a fellow-soldier in misfortune. Give me your parole—and, while with us, you shall be a captive but in name.”
“I thank you, sir,” I answered, “but when a hope of deliverance remains, I never will, by a solemn promise, rivet the chain that binds me. I know all chances of escape are desperate, and, without even having seen an army in the field, that I shall be transferred to the hopeless bondage of some inland fortress. I will give no parole, and if fortune favour me, I will be free, or——”
“So—I understand you! Well, try your chances, and let me take care to mar them. Your parole once given, Mr. O’Halloran, no officer of this detachment should have been more at liberty than yourself; but as it is refused, you will excuse me in treating you as I should the commonest prisoner.—No matter, we understand each other perfectly. You have been candid, and I forewarned. Have I your parole while we continue here—here, in this posada?”
“Certainly.”
“And you will not attempt escape?”
“No; even though my good friend, the Empecinado, beat up your quarters, my dear colonel.”
“Well, to breakfast now. Durimel?” he said, turning to his aide-de-camp, “this gentleman is under no restraint; and while we remain in the village, the gates are open to him.”
I bowed. “I am now upon parole, colonel—I feel flattered with this mark of confidence; and lest I might be run away with by these wild partidas, I shall wail myself of the protection of your voltigeurs, and confine myself within the enclosure of the posada.”
Colonel La Coste appeared pleased at the frankness with which I addressed him, and nothing could surpass the civility of his officers. Perfectly acquainted with the accidental circumstances which introduced me to the Empecinado and involved me in the melee of the morning, I was complimented on my first essay; and more than one of the gallant Frenchmen, expressed a sincere regret that my effort at escape had not proved more successful. The colonel washed down his breakfast with a hearty stoup, while, with the loquacity of an old soldier, he favoured us with military reminiscences.
“Would you believe it, Mr. O’Halloran, that your name is perfectly familiar to me? 1 am a soldier of the old school, and commenced my career at thirty. My first campaign was in the Low Countries, opposed to your present commander-in-chief, the Duke of York; and, at his retreat, I was in the advanced guard of the Republican army. On both sides, supplies were scanty, and as our discipline was not then particularly strict, men wandered here and there to make out a supper, if they could. Though in years a man, I was a raw soldier in experience; and one foggy evening I straggled from the outposts, and, at last, totally missed my way. The accursed dykes of that most beastly country confused me, and the further I went, the more I got confounded. I tumbled into two or three of their dirty canals, and escaped, half smothered, between mud and water, until, after an hour’s wandering, I at last found myself within the British outposts and regularly at my wit’s end.
“A light was burning from a casement; I crept on, evaded the sentry in front, and peeped through the window. Within, one man was seated, and the epaulets on his shoulder told me that he was a field officer. My case was hopeless. In a Dutch fog, within the lines of the enemy, the bridges guarded, the boors unfriendly—how, in the devil’s name, had I a chance of escape!—and, adopting a desperate resolution, I determined to trust to the generosity of an enemy. I tapped lightly on the casement, and the English officer rose, and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A poor hungry devil that has lost his way!’ said I. He told me to proceed; and I honestly informed him that I had been four-and-twenty hours without food, and that, in seeking some. I had got out of my own lines, and into sundry canals—was half drowned, half frozen, and half starved—and, to sum the story up, regularly perplexed, and bedeviled. He laughed—told me to come in—gave me a draught of genuine Schiedam—pointed to a table, where the remnant of a capital supper was unremoved—and told me to eat heartily; (‘gad, he had no occasion to repeat the invitation;) I did so—again drank heartily from the long-necked bottle, and then modestly inquired whether I was a prisoner, or not?
“‘Heaven forbid, pauvre diable!’ he answered with a laugh—‘No, no—Wert thou a spy—three dips in a Dutch canal, with the mercury below the freezing point, would be punishment enough. I have tonight the outpost duty—I’ll pass you—and should you encounter some wandering Englishman, repay the debt!’ He then left the room; I followed—he saw me across a bridge where the outlying picket lay—and in an hour, I found myself once more with my regiment. Is it not singular that his name was similar to yours?—and that, three days afterwards, I met him in the streets of Tyle, bayonet to bayonet? The headlong charge of the British grenadiers overpowered us; but I heard, with unfeigned regret, that my gallant friend and host had been severely wounded, and lost an arm.
“Well, my son, when fortune turned against your countrymen, often and fervently I prayed, that should more misfortunes overtake Colonel O’Halloran, some good chance might place him in the hands of his grateful enemy, Corporal La Coste.—have you ever heard of such a person—a man of my own time of life, ay—old enough to be your father?”
“In the latter observation, my dear Colonel, you are perfectly correct, as the gentleman in question stands precisely in that relation to me. Well—it is strange enough, that you were indebted for a supper to the parent, and repaid it with a breakfast to the son!”
In a moment the old republican folded me in his arms.
“Welcome,” he said, “son of a brave and generous enemy! May your career, my child, be as gallant but more fortunate than your father’s; and may you return to your native land with a well-won reputation, to cheer the winter of the old man’s age—I once hoped the same from thee, Henri!”
He looked for a moment to the corner of the chamber where the dead chasseur was laid—a tear trickled down his cheek—he brushed it hastily away—then rose and crossed over to the casement, to conceal emotions of a softer nature, which, in his stern estimate of a soldier’s character, he considered unworthy of its dignity. In a few minutes he recovered his composure, and was ready to receive the report of Captain St. Pierre—who had just returned to the village, after an unsuccessful effort to discover the retreat of the dreaded guerilla.
The captain of the chasseurs announced the failure of the expedition in terms that showed how deeply its want of success had mortified him.
“We scoured the woods,” he said; “we searched every hovel for a league around us; questioned every peasant that we met, and used threats and promises in vain: and we are back, Colonel La Coste—the men worn out, the horses wearied—and we could neither find a trace, nor glean the slightest intelligence of the murdering brigand, who, for this time, has unfortunately eluded detection.”
Rest was absolutely necessary before the cavalry could resume their march; and, as a mountain-pass crowned the Toledo road at a league’s distance from the village, and rendered the route particularly dangerous, it was determined that the party should remain at the posada for the night, and march at sun-rise. The dead chasseurs were honourably committed to the grave—the soldiers ordered to refresh themselves—the day passed over—night came—and, after every precaution had been taken to secure the party against surprise, I found myself once more in undisputed possession of the hard mattress on which I had rested the preceding night. War, like misfortune, introduces people to strange bed-fellows, and I never saw that adage so strikingly confirmed. Colonel La Coste slept on the Empecinado’s bed. Where were the wild and Swarthy partisans whom I had seen stretched on those couches now occupied by gaily-dressed chasseurs? Cold and lifeless in the court-yard;—all suffering at an end—life’s fever over!
At dawn of day the trumpet sounded; and as I had never undressed, I quitted the crowded gallery to enjoy the morning air. I found the court-yard in strange confusion, and the spot where the dead guerillas lay, encircled by a number of the soldiery. I stepped forward; the men made way for me; and one of them pointed out a paper affixed to the Student’s breast. It was a placard, couched in Spanish, the words being, “Meuran los Franceses!”
When the occurrence was reported to Colonel La Coste, nothing could exceed his rage at the insult, excepting his astonishment at the audacity of venturing on an attempt, that if discovered, involved the certain death of him who tried this dangerous experiment. All connected with the posada were subjected to a rigorous examination; but nothing was elicited that could attach suspicion to any particular individual. I knew not wherefore, but the occurrence raised some hopes of a speedy deliverance; and I felt a strong conviction that our march on Toledo would not be effected without interruption; and the event proved that my conclusions were correct.
We marched at six o’clock; and what a scene of melancholy loneliness the deserted posada must have presented after our departure! The crowd of glittering soldiers gone—the only occupants, the affrighted inmates, and the dead guerillas. We rode slowly through the hamlet; I, mounted on a horse that two days before had carried an enemy’s chasseur. It might have been fancy—I thought the faces of the villagers had a sinister expression as they looked after the French soldiers, while in more than one hurried glance, I saw sympathy evinced for me.
When we cleared the village, Colonel La Coste rode up, and signalled that two chasseurs, who rode on either side of me with unslung carbines, should fall back.
“Mr. O’Halloran,” he said, “your parole is ended—are you willing to renew it? If so, ride in any part of the column you think fit, and consider yourself at perfect freedom.”
“Colonel,” I replied, “to do so would be to abandon my last hope of liberty. Treat me as a close prisoner; I will not give the pledge you ask from me.”
He looked at me suspiciously.
“Is there any secret understanding with the enemy? have you received any private information? What hope of escape can you have? The escort is strong—our soldiers vigilant.”
“Still—hopeless as they may be, 1 will not throw chances away. I tell you honestly, Colonel La Coste, that I will use every means of effecting an escape—”
“Which I shall take precautions to render impracticable,” he added. “I have a stern duty to perform; and even though it cost mine ancient friend a son, La Coste shall not be wanting.”
He waived his hand—the chasseurs resumed a place at either side—and one took my bridle in his hand. The commandant addressed them—
“Should this gentleman endeavour to get away, or should an attempt be made to rescue him that seems likely to succeed, shoot him on the spot. We lost one that we should have captured; we must not lose another. Look first, to this gentleman’s security; and secondly, to his comfort. Impose no unnecessary restraint—but deliver him safely at Toledo, or, mark the consequences!—your lives shall be the forfeit of his liberty,” he said—spurred his horse forward, and took his place at the head of the column, which had now left Casa Mora in its rear.
The line of march ran through a country, wild, picturesque, and difficult. A sierra of steep ascent was immediately in our front—the summit crowned with broken crags—and the sides clothed thickly with ilex, cork, and olive trees. As we advanced, the woods grew thicker, and the road was surmounted by rocks on either hand. It seemed as if it had been originally a great water-course, which human labour had converted into a passage through the mountain. We approached the gorge of the pass with military caution. Videttes preceded the advanced guard; and, on either side, voltigeurs were thrown out in extended order, to feel the woods, and keep the flanks secure. Colonel La Coste, after making every disposition against surprise, joined the centre of the column, where I was riding with my friends the chasseurs, who had been so particularly entrusted with the pleasant duty of dispatching me on the first alarm. The Colonel ordered them to fall back once more; and, satisfied that we were secure from any molestation, he indulged again in fresh details of some of the many scenes and services which he had passed through during his adventurous career. Still, evidently he was not at ease; and as we entered the defile, he could not repress feelings of apprehension.
“What an infernal guerilla-pass it is!” he half spoke, half-muttered to himself: “The country and the men seem formed for each other, and designed for cut-throat warfare. And the manner the road winds, too,—you cannot see fifty yards in front for rocks and thickets. We’re near the summit. Heaven be praised!—for, sooth to say, Mr. O’Halloran, this is not exactly the place where I should wish to have the honour of trying conclusions with your esteemed friend, the Empecinado.”
The road made here a wide and sudden sweep, dipping into a hollow in the mountain-ridge. Right in front, a pinnacle of rock appeared to bar all farther passage, and the path was scarped from its side. The hollow way on either side was bordered by thick underwood—and nothing eould be more suspicious-looking than this wild and difficult gorge. Again Colonel La Coste rode forward to the front, to restore the order of the column, which had become crowded and disordered, from the narrowness and ruggedness of the path.
Before, however, the commandant could reach his advanced guard, a vidette galloped hastily back, and announced that the road in front was entirely blocked up with trees, formed into a strong abatis, impassable to cavalry. The chasseurs were halted, and the light infantry ordered forward to remove the barrier by which the further-progress of the column had been thus arrested. Nearly at the same moment, the rear-guard were suddenly fired on from thickets on either side, while a number of partidas rushed from their previous concealments, and, in a few minutes, effectually closed up the narrow road which the detachment had already passed, by throwing trees and rocks across it. That the French party were completely surprised, was now but too apparent. The voltigeurs, in attempting to force the abatis, had been shot down by dozens; and every knoll, or rock, which overlooked the pass, swarmed with guerillas, who commenced a murderous fire from their long-barrelled fowling-pieces, and that, too, upon the close ranks of an enemy where every bullet told.
The old republican had ridden forward to encourage the voltigeurs to force the abatis, that the column might fight its way through the gorge in which it had been entangled—but he was shot through the heart, and dropped dead from his charger. The suddenness of the attack—the fall of their leader—the appearance of countless enemies on every side, completed the panic, and paralysed exertions which, under ordinary circumstances, the enemy would have made. To a stern demand to surrender, the voltigeurs replied by throwing down their arms, while the chasseurs hastily dismounted, and endeavoured to obtain protection behind their horses, from a constant and deadly fusilade. Some had endeavoured to escape through the underwood—and a few succeeded in the attempt—but the greater number were cut down; and presently resistance ceased.
The suddenness of the surprise—and the rapidity with which the affair had terminated in the destruction or capture of the French detachment, seemed magical.—No attempt had been made to carry the orders of Colonel La Coste into execution, and my danger was confined to the ordinary chances of receiving a flying bullet by mistake.—From the moment a shot was heard, my captors lost all heart, and appeared to consider their situation desperate: generally mercy was extended—and in a time inconceivably short, the prisoners were secured, and stripped of every thing that was deemed worthy of notice by the guerillas.
From the neat and uniform appointments of the French soldiers, the eye turned in surprise on the strange and motley appearance the guerilla band presented. Every individual was dressed and armed after his especial fancy. All were differently equipped; and had not sad realities presented themselves, the whole might have been imagined a military masquerade. The costumes of several countries were united in a single dress. The flaring scarlet and light blue jacket of an Estremaduran hussar—the shaco of a French chasseur—pistols and saddle of English manufacture—the long straight sword of the cuirassier—the brown Spanish sash, and leathern cartouch-box, with an Arragonese or Catalan escopeta, were not unfrequent equipments of the same brigand, as the French invariably entitled them. *