Although none of the captives escaped plunder, and many were cruelly insulted in the operation, it was singular that all the partidas treated me with respect, and left me unscathed in person or effects. Presently a buzz around me attracted my attention. A man was forcing a passage through the crowd, and the guerillas civilly made way for him. He was dressed and armed in the same wild and incongruous style which marked the costume of these irregular partisans; and he looked as much the brigand as if he had served a regular apprenticeship to the profession. Great, therefore, was my astonishment when I heard him pronounce my name; but greater still, when he seized both my hands in his, and half said, half sobbed—“Hector, avourneeine!—Have I found my foster-brother once more?” It was, indeed, the lost Mark Antony; and, as far as one could judge by appearances, the fosterer had neither received damage in the late affray, nor in his morning swim over the Sedana.
“Holy Mary!” he exclaimed. “Is this yourself, Master Hector? Well, I never expected to see you alive; though that black gentleman, with the long name, strove all he could to give me comfort. May the Lord reward him for the same!—and upon my soul, for a perfect stranger, he showed the greatest affection for us both After we were safe out of fire, and taking breath for a minute in the cork-wood, I asked him, fair and easy, what he thought had become of ye? ‘’Gad,’ says he, ‘I think its a toss-up between shooting and hanging. The chances are, that your master was finished in the affray; but if he escaped that, he is sure to be throttled in the morning. Don’t be cast down,’ says he, ‘if they string up our absent friend, I’ll hang twelve Frenchmen in his place, and you shall keep the reckonin’.’ It was very civil on the gentleman’s part, but, ‘faith, I was better pleased, an hour afterwards, when a goatherd brought us intelligence that you were safe and sound, and the other poor devils dead as a door-nail. But here he comes—a mighty pleasant sort of friend, but sorra worse enemy one would meet in a month of Sundays. Indeed, I have no reason to complain of him; a better comrade I never travelled with—I have lived like a fighting-cock since we came together; and as my clothes were made ribbons of in the skrimmage, here I am rigged out anew from top to toe.”
As he spoke, the partida leader approached, wrung my hand ardently with his, and warmly congratulated me on my safe deliverance from French bondage, and in having escaped any material injury in our outbreak from the posada, and the more recent attack. Confiding the duty of removing the prisoners, horses, and plunder to Villa Toro, he requested me to walk with him to the head of the pass. As we proceeded along the scene of action—if such an affair might so be termed, where the loss was entirely on one side, and no resistance had been offered—I was struck with the strange alteration the appearance of the road had undergone. Ten minutes since it had been strewn with dead chasseurs and sharpshooters, dressed in their showy uniforms, and fully and effectively equipped. Not a soldier could be discovered now; but in their places numerous corpses might be seen stripped of every covering, and in a state of nudity, that almost rendered identity impossible. One body, however, I distinctly recognised:—the white hair, and stern expression of countenance, even after death, could not be mistaken:—the dead soldier was the old Republican—Colonel La Coste.
“Proceed to judgment; by my sou!, I swear.
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me.”
SHAKSPEARE.
I could not pass the still bleeding corpse of the old commander without gazing for a moment on the body, and expressing my sympathy aloud. The Empecinado directed a careless look at the fallen Frenchman.
“Yes,” he said, “La Coste has fought his last battle; and he who would wish that the event were otherwise, would be indeed his enemy. I have one weak point of character, Mr. O’Halloran, and occasionally, forget the man in the soldier. The Spaniard who struck for freedom had in La Coste a ruthless foe. By the orders of him and another, I have lost, as you know, two brave companions; and within an hour after ‘the Student’ breathed his last, the dying commands of my friend were carefully conveyed to me. Vengeance he demanded—vengeance I swore should be exacted—and I doomed his murderers accordingly. From my fixed purpose no earthly intervention could have saved the devoted commander—but the chances of war have averted an ignominious end. He died a soldier’s death—I don’t regret it;—and the halter, designed for him, is reserved for some less fortunate camarado. No more—the morning has been a busy one. Come, we need refreshment. Follow me!”
He led the way through an opening in the abatis made by the removal of a tree, ascended the steep rock behind it, and when we gained the summit, we found there a guerilla déjeuné prepared. The scene and meal were wild alike. Substantial viands, a leathern bottle of capacious size filled with wine of superior excellence, a few rude platters, the rock our table, the sky, cloudless and blue, the canopy—while a rivulet, clear as crystal, trickled at our feet through the deep hollow of a mountain ravine, whose volume of water varied at seasons from a torrent to a thread. Above, the rugged pinnacles of the wild Sierra overhung the place we occupied—while below, the broken road wound through the underwood, which by turns revealed or hid it. The lower portion was crowded with the guerillas and their prisoners in march to Villa Moro, but the upper presented a less pleasing spectacle. It was thickly studded with the bodies of the slain—an hour ago “instinct with life,” but now mutilated, cold, and naked.
We found two chosen friends of Juan Diez waiting to share the morning meal. As the dark complexion of the guerilla leader had given the Empecinado his by-name, so also, the person or profession of his companions had obtained for each a sobriquet. One was a low-sized man, of extraordinary muscular proportions, who, from a distortion of his left hand, was termed El bianco, or “The Maimed.” The other retained the title of his former calling; and although the missal had long since been abandoned for the sword, he still was designated “El Cura.” Than the respective dresses and appearance of these partida chiefs, nothing could be more dissimilar. The “Maimed One” wore the simple costume of an Estremduran peasant—while the rich uniform of a chef-d’escadron of Joseph’s lancers of the guard, was adopted by the churchman, whose tall and martial figure seemed never intended for one, whose sphere of action should be confined to the drowsy duties of cell and cloister.
At the invitation of Juan Diez, we assumed a Roman attitude, and stretched ourselves upon the rock; the fosterer modestly falling back, as if he considered himself unworthy of breakfasting in such goodly presence. The Spaniard noticed his secession.
“What ho!” he exclaimed, with a smile,—“hast thou no appetite to-day?—or after sticking stoutly to a comrade in the fray, wouldst thou desert him afterwards at feasting time? ’Tis not the world’s way in general—and men love to see the cork drawn, who hate the sparkle of a sabre. Sit thee down,” and he pointed to a place beside himself. Then turning to his companions, the Empecinado thus continued:—
“I told you, my friends, how narrowly I avoided the trap which French gold and Spanish treachery had baited for me. I planned and led a desperate effort at escape—and never was man more gallantly supported. This youth and I succeeded. ‘Twas all mere accident. We kept our legs and gained the river. My brave friend here,” (I coloured at the compliment like a peony,) “and our murdered brethren, were beaten down and captured. It is marvellous how the whistle of a passing bullet accelerates one’s speed—and faith, I never fancied I could run so fast. If my camarado here proved that in the fray he could use his arms stoutly, in flight nothing but a goatherd could keep him company. Fast as I ran, he still ran faster—and we fairly outstripped pursuit, save that of two rascally voltigeurs, who had thrown away their musquets, and thus lightened, were enabled to keep close at our heels. We neared the river—ten paces more would gain the bank—and then escape would be pretty certain. I turned my head to see what number of the enemy pursued us. A score came straggling after at various distances, and, fifty yards ahead of their companions, those two accursed sharpshooters led the chase. I wished the scoundrels hamstrung; but, thanks to our Lady! the Sedana was at hand. Alas! it seemed fated that I should not reach its waters. An infernal vine-root crossed the path—it caught my foot—down I came; and, as I believed, my doom was sealed,—captivity first, and death afterwards. My young companion heard my fall; and checking his course, he boldly turned to assist me to escape, or share my fate if taken. With a blow he felled the leading voltigeur, and while the other hesitated to close with two desperate men, I regained my feet, and in another moment I and my brwe preserver were breasting the swollen stream, and jive minutes found us in safety on its farther side. Yes, my stout comrade—but for thee, France would have been freed of one of her worst enemies, and Spain have lost a faithful son. Juan Diez owes thee a life—and the dearest wish of his heart is, that a time may come when he can repay thy gallant service.”
“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.
In dead silence they were placed in a line, and at the foot of the table, where the bodies of “the Student” and his comrade were extended. Bending on the devoted wretches a scowl of indescribable ferocity, the Empecinado thus addressed them:—
“Spaniards—but in name—false to your God, faithless to your country!—have ye aught to say why a felon death should not be instantly awarded?”
The hopeless agony which the faces of the criminals thus addressed exhibited, shall never fade from my memory. Colourless—wordless—their white lips moved; but not a syllable was articulated but the single supplication, half lost, half heard, of “mercy!”
“Mercy!” returned their stern judge, “Mercy!”—and he laughed. Oh! what a laugh it was!—“Mercy, and from me! Look round gaze upon your victims—and then ask mercy from Juan Diez But softly, we must be just. The mockery of a trial was extended to our comrades, and a similar act of justice shall be meted out to you. I shall be the accuser, and those shall be your judges and he pointed to El Manco and the Curate. Yes, justice ye shall have; and I swear, by the decree only of these worthy gentlemen, life or death shall be determined!”
He placed his hand within his jacket, and then slowly pulling out several written documents, selected two or three, and then proceeded with his address.
“Answer me briefly—speak truth—for, remember, the first falsehood ensures the transfer of yonder halters from arm to neck. Jose de Toro,” he continued, turning to the postmaster, “knowst thou this handwriting?”
The person questioned gave a hurried look at the well remembered characters, and, with the sickly hope that, leaning on a straw, still clings desperately to life, he at once determined to betray his guilty companion.
“Noble sir,” he muttered, “that writing is the alcades.”
“Thou hearest,” said the Empecinado, handing the fatal document to the Cura. “Honest Sancho thou wert bearer of a letter, two nights ago, addressed to Captain St. Pierre. Wouldst thou know it, honest Sancho?” and the word honest hissed sarcastically between his teeth.
To the unfortunate muleteer, life was dear as to the postmaster. He took the fatal packet in his hand, looked at it attentively, and then replied, that he had indeed received it from Jose de Toro, under a promise of ten dollars for its safe delivery, which promise had been faithfully fulfilled.
“Ho! Ho!” exclaimed the Empecinado, “said I not truly that thou wert honest? ‘Tis marvellous what virtue lies in a yard or two of hemp. There, Cura, read that letter also, and then thou and El Manco will know what will be due to justice. What proves the alcade’s letter?”
“That the writer is a traitor, and in French pay,” was the brief reply.
“And what, the worthy postmaster’s?”
“That he is a sworn confederate.”
“And what, Cura, wouldst thou term the caitiff who advisedly was bearer of treacherous intelligence?”
“I would say that, in effecting the villany of others, he was on a par, in guilt, with the traitors who employed him.”
“And now, El Manco, be it thy duty to pronounce sentence on these offenders.”
The maimed one answered this appeal by directing a concentrated look of hatred and vengeance at the convicted. Neither the alcade or De Toro had power to speak a word; but the luckless muleteer cried lustily, and in the name of every saint, for mercy and forgiveness.
“Well,” said the partida chief, “‘twere wrong to keep you in suspense, as one fate awaits ye. But we will justly apportion it according to your respective ranks.”
Here the muleteer, under fallacious expectations, broke in with a loud torrent of future loyalty and everlasting gratitude.
“Stay, fellow, keep thyself cool awhile,” said El Manco, drily. “Thou know’st the proverb, surely—‘Hallo not until ye clear the forest;’ and now listen to your sentences. With due consideration for thy rank, alcade, thou shalt ornament a topping branch of your own beech tree. The postmaster must needs content himself with a lower bough. And for thee, good fellow,” and he addressed himself to the trembling muleteer, “no matter to what limb they attach thy worthless carcase, provided thy feet clear the court-yard by a yard or two. Off with them—let them have five minutes; and, by San Jago, that will be longer by four than the knaves deserve!”
Never, on a shorter trial, were men condemned, nor sentence more savagely delivered. To a ruthless judge, appeal or remonstrance would have been equally unwailing; and they were removed from the posada to the tree in a sort of sullen and stupid unconsciousness. Their shrift was short—the last sad ceremony hurried over—and, as the fosterer afterwards observed, “they were hanged before they could find time to bless themselves!”
The passing scene was one that would dwell long upon the fancy.—One may view the dead with indifference—the trial’s over—the goal is past.—But who can look upon “a thing of life,” whose thread of existence a few short minutes will sever, without recoiling at the thought? So much had these sad reflections occupied my mind, that I forgot there were others besides those on whom I had just looked my last, who were standing on the confines of eternity. But these musings were interrupted. Without, a rolling volley was suddenly delivered. It knelled the doom of the luckless voltigeurs—and by a similar impulse, Mark Antony and I sprang from the bench, and rushed forward to the casement which looked out upon the courtyard.
For a moment the smoke from the guerilla muskets partially obscured our view—but as it rose upwards, we saw the unhappy sufferers stretched in a line before the wall—dead, or rolling in the agonies of death. There was one singular exception;—an officer appeared to have escaped—for he stood upright and firmly on his feet, with his hand across his bosom. In military executions, some loaded muskets are always reserved to abridge the sufferings of the condemned, should the volley of the firing party fail to end existence. But the partidas were willing executioners—every piece had been discharged—and though the Frenchman boldly called on them to “fire!”—the order was not obeyed.
To rescue the gallant victim was my instant determination, and I appealed warmly to the Empecinado in his favour. The Spaniard shook his head—and the Cura and El Manco protested against any exercise of mercy. The guerillas commenced reloading—in a few brief moments the deed would be effected, and remonstrance of no avail—but a sudden impulse of generous ardour eventually proved successful. The fosterer bounded from the casement to the courtyard—sprang through the crowd, passed along the front of the firing party, clasped the condemned soldier in his arms, and swore in very excellent Irish, and by every saint he could remember at the time, that to reach the Frenchman’s body, the bullets must pass first through his.
There was not a partida in that wild band who did not personally estimate Mark Antony as the saviour of their chief—but still the fosterer’s was a dangerous and doubtful experiment. It was interposing between the tiger who has tasted blood, and the victim already underneath his paw. Dark looks were turned upon the preserved and the preserver—and muttered oaths were heard, like the distant growl which heralds the bursting of a thundercloud. The Empecinado, who witnessed the occurrence from the casement, however, lulled the coming storm—and in a voice that to be heard was to be obeyed, he commanded the surviving prisoner to be conducted to his presence; and next moment Lieutenant Cammaran entered the kitchen of the pesada—on one side guarded by a guerilla—on the other supported by the honest fosterer, who still, for better security, encircled the Frenchman with his arm.
Scott says that “a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but a fosterbrother is a piece of his heart.” The truth of the remark never came so home to me before. In infancy, the same bosom had sustained us,—in childhood, our joys and sorrows were the same,—in youth, Mark Antony had followed my fortunes, and in manhood preserved my life. No wonder, that for him mine was indeed a brother’s love. But I never felt so proud of our relationship, as when I saw the fosterer confront the guerilla chiefs, with his arm locked firmly round the poor French voltigeur.
“Portia.—It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established;
‘Twill be recorded for a precedent;
And many an error, by the same example,
Will rush into the state—it cannot be.”
Merchant or Venice.
I never met a man who appeared to have made his mind up to die with more dignity and determination than Lieutenant Cammaran. He had already almost undergone the bitterness of death; as yet his fate was an uncertainty—the sword continued suspended by a hair—and still the expression of his manly countenance was perfectly undisturbed, and neither lip nor eye-lid trembled, he planted his foot firmly on the floor, and, calmly and resolved, awaited a doubtful result—the turn of the die, on which life and death depended.
How he had escaped mortal injury seemed the miracle: two balls had passed through his chaco, his epaulette was divided by another, the jacket perforated by several, and yet not one bullet of a dozen aimed at him had even razed the skin! In such a presence, and under such circumstances, to remain unmoved, required a powerful exercise of moral courage. Few there were, who bore the name of Frenchman, who would have coveted an interview with Juan Diez. El Manco, in desperate severity towards the invaders, bore even a more terrible reputation than the Empecinado; and although the Cura was a learned and pious churchman, as it might have been presumed, still, from divers exploits ascribed to him, in which unbounded liberties had been taken with life and limb, there was not a follower of the intruder who would not have preferred an interview with the archenemy himself.
“Thou hast been condemned to death,” said Juan Diez, addressing the prisoner.
“I have,” replied the captive, steadily, “and the only marvel is that the sentence has not been yet completed.”
“Humph! But for the thoughtless interference of this rash young man, that marvel would have been ended speedily,” returned the Empecinado. “Hast thou aught to ask before——” And he made a pause.
“The experiment shall be tried more successfully,” said the Frenchman, coolly. “Yes; I have an orphan daughter! My poor Pauline!—thou hast no mother to protect thee—and in an hour thou wilt be fatherless! I would send her all I have—my parting blessing; and, with your permission, write a brief letter, which this kind and gallant youth will, I have no doubt, endeavour to get safely conveyed to Paris.”
“Mona sin diaoul!” exclaimed the fosterer, drawing the back of his hand across his eyes, “Miss Pauline shall get it, though I walked every inch of the road, and committed highway robbery for my expenses.”
“Thy request is granted. Diego, bring my portefeuille hither. And make the letter short,” continued El Manco, coldly; “I have some ten leagues to ride after thy execution; I’ll wait until it’s over, for I hate to leave a job half done.”
“Gracious God!” I exclaimed; “surely this cannot be serious! Pause, Don Juan!—One so miraculously preserved—the very hand of Providence visible in his escape!—Would you slay him?—deliberately, coldly, slay him? No, no, I can’t—I won’t believe it. You are brave!—the brave are not assassins; and this would be an act of butchery! You would not sanction it. Did I conceive it possible that you would, by Heaven, the worst remembrance of my life would be, to think that you and I had ever fought side by side, and hand and heart together!”
The Spaniard coloured; but a sarcastic smile was the only reply he vouchsafed.
“I am too warm, Don Juan; like that of your own land, Irish blood is hot. Forgive me if I have offended you.” A gracious smile from the Empeeinado was returned, and conveyed a gracious pardon. “Now let me ask a favour: make me in gratitude your debtor; I have a claim on you. From the surprise, three nights ago, I risked nothing but captivity; by the French I should have been honourably respected; and had I determined on escape, a fitter time and better opportunity would have been readily found to attempt it. With you circumstances were different, nay, desperate. With you ‘twas but a choice of deaths—the sword or halter the alternative—while I had only to remain quiet, and not a hair of my head would have suffered injury. Did I fail you then?—Did my foster brother? No; we perilled all, fought by your side, and hewed out a path by which you escaped a death more certain, even than that which now awaits this unfortunate gentleman.”
“Stop, Mr. O’Halloran,” said Juan Diez, interrupting me. “All you have stated is correct; and the only difficulty in the case is to reconcile gratitude with duty. I see a course by which matters may be accommodated; and, from your interference on his behalf, I will save this Frenchman; that is, provided he accedes to terms. There are none here but those he may rely on. Listen, prisoner, and pause before you answer me.” He took an open packet from his breast. “These papers, in cypher, were found carefully concealed upon the body of your late commander: you were his secretary, and know the key; give me the means of reading the contents, and thou art free as yonder bird.” A pigeon passed the casement at the moment. “Hast thou not the key?”
“I have,” returned the captive.
“Speak—disclose it—liberty is thine; and none shall ever know the means by which I obtained a knowledge of the secret.”
“First, may this tongue be palsied!” And the captive drew himself proudly up.
“To the court-yard, then!” returned the Einpecinado. “No more, sir,” he said, perceiving I was about to urge anew my claims upon him for late service, “have I your final answer to my proposal?” he continued, turning to the condemned.
“Fixed and final!” was the firm reply.
“And upon my conscience, as a true Catholic,” exclaimed the fosterer, “a dirtier proposal, Mister Empecinado, I never listened to!—you would have the honest lad here turn traitor, after hanging three dacent men of the same profession scarcely half an hour ago!—Arrah, have ye neither conscience nor decency, Don Juan?”
“What ho!” returned the Spaniard, “art thou, too, upon me?”
“Mr. Empecinado—and God sees I’m not quite certain whether I’m right or wrong in mistering you—but if it’s wrong, why leave it on my ignorance. We have been comrades for three days, and from the little I know of ye, I would go through fire and water to serve you; more by token, the coldest swim I ever had, I took in your company over that river the other morning. No matter about that—the glass of brandy we had from that friend of yours in the cork wood set all to rights afterwards. Well, as I was saying, ye spoke civilly of me not two hours ago fornent these gentlemen—him with the crooked claw, and his reverence in the colonel’s jacket. Now all I ask you is a trifle. Honour bright, Don Juan! Don’t ye mind, after the swim, and over a glass of brandy-nate, you offered to hang a dozen Frenchmen as a mark of friendship to me and Master Hector there? It’s not much I want; only just let one neck alone. Do, Empecinado, avourneine! Arrah, do, and take my blessing! Why, man, it would be murder, out and out, to harm him. Arrah, just look at the state ye have reduced him to!—you have drove two bullets through his cap; and as to his jacket—and may be the best the crature has in the world—it’s cut into so many ribbons, that, upon my conscience, a respectable scarecrow would be ashamed to wear it in a wheat-field on a Sunday. You know I’m the last man that would interfere in matters that don’t concern me.—Did I part my lips, good nor bad, when ye sent the three gentlemen to the gallows a while ago?—and if you hanged raff of their kind out of the face—for as well as I could understand they were bailiffs or attorneys—sorra one of me would blame ye if ye strung them by the score. But this poor crature—let him go—and take Mark Antony’s blessing.”
Warm as was the fosterer’s appeal, it did not shake the stern resolution of the Empecinado; and a cold movement of his head negatived the supplication for mercy.
“And won’t ye, then, be after letting him off?” continued Mark Antony, warming into Hibernian eloquence, while his cheek flushed, and his dark eyes kindled. “Ye spoke a while ago about my doing you a civil turn—let this poor fellow free, and I’ll do ye twenty more, if you’ll only put me in the way. But if ye’re baste enough to murder him—mona bin diaoul!—the next time you’re in a skrimmage, and tumble over an ould tree, may the divil pick ye up for Mark Antony O’Toole. That’s all I have to say—Tiggum thu?” *
The speaker paused. Most of the fosterer’s address Juan Diez comprehended; and such portion of the speech as had been delivered in Irish, being expletive, were not very material. To the appeal, however, he turned a deaf ear, and directed, that after his letter had been written, the prisoner’s sentence should be carried into immediate effect. I was about to remonstrate, but Mark Antony, having the ear of the Court, thus continued:—
“And is this your answer?” he exclaimed. “Ah, then, Empecinado, I have done with ye! Ay—and for all your fine speeches, I’m be-ginning to think you’re no great shakes, after all; and as to your promises, they’re very like what they call pig-shaving in Connaught—much noise and little wool. Come along, Hector, jewel! we won’t remain to see this poor gentleman fairly murdered. God forgive the whole of ye! I put the sign of the cross betune us.” And here the fosterer made a crusial flourish with his thumb in the direction of the guerilla chiefs. “I can only say, that if there are three gentlemen in Spain certain of a warm corner in the next world, I’m just at present taking a parting peep at them. Good morning to ye all. I’ll be obliged if you’ll send one of your understrappers to put us on the right road; and I hope, Mister Diez, that the next dacent lad ye tatter out of bed at cock-crow, to drag into a rookarn first, and a river afterwards—why—that you’ll trate him civiller than ye did me.”
There are few who are proof against eloquence, natural or acquired; and on all it has power alike, whether it be exercised in the fish-market or the Four Courts. On some men it may have opposite effects; and the florid appeal that carries away the judgment of the one, will only alarm the suspicions of another; and thus, the same jury, that on the showing of Mr. Charles Phillips, values an abstracted lady at a thousand pounds, after a prosy address from Sergeant Roundabout, will estimate a similar loss only at a sixpence. Mark Antony had very awkward judges to address; like his greater namesake, “he was no orator,” and possibly it was all the better for his client. We have some doubts, had Mr. Joseph Hume denounced the international illegality of despatching Lieutenant Cammaran of the 16th Voltigeurs, with the arithmetical precision with which, in the House of Commons, he would calculate the waste of human breath, that the brass band of the Guards inflicts on this distressed country,—we have doubts, up say, whether the Empecinado would have been a convert. Had the Liberator of Ireland blessed or banned for an hour by Shrewsbury clock, it would have been all the same to El Manco—and to the remonstrance of the Bench of Bishops, aided by a rescript from the Pope, the Cura would have irreverently played “deaf adder.” And yet, with such unmanageable authorities to deal with, Mark Antony’s eloquence prevailed.
“Stop!” cried Juan Diez, as the fosterer turned his back sullenly round, to wait while the condemned soldier conveyed to his orphan a last farewell.—“Will nothing but this Frenchman’s life acquit the service that I owe thee?”
“Nothing,” returned Mark Antony.—“what other favour could ye grant me? Hav’n’t I the free use of my limbs, and ten dollars besides in my pocket?”
“Well—if it must be so—I will not let thee leave me in thy debt. Frenchman—thou art saved!”
“Then, Pauline, thou mayst yet receive from living lips, that blessing which a dying hand was tracing!” and springing from the bench, the voltigeur flung his arms around the fosterer, and pressed him to his bosom.
“Heaven forbid,” said Juan Diez, addressing Mark Antony—“that I had many creditors like thee! Well—no matter—have I now acquitted all claims upon me to the full?”
“No, Empecinado,” I returned—“I am as yet unpaid.”
“Go on, my friend.—What wouldst thou have me do?” said the Spaniard, graciously.
“Complete the favour—and add liberty to life.”
Juan Diez paused—looked at El Maneo and the Cura.
“What shall I answer? I swore that nothing should avert his doom—and thought nothing could have shaken the resolution.”
“I know that nothing human should have shaken mine,” observed El Maneo. “Life spared, liberty is a trifle—grant it, Juan Diez, if you please.”
“And I,” said the Cura, “will not object.—Great men have occasional weaknesses, and at times, I have found myself rather softer hearted than I should be. Empecinado, ’tis sinful to break an oath,—but Holy Church is merciful.—Hang me the first half dozen of these robbers who fall into your hands, and thou shalt have absolution; the penance—that thou shalt fast from flesh meat the first day when you cannot conveniently find it.”
At this merciful annunciation of the worthy clerk, Juan Diez laughed.
“I thank thee, Cura,” he replied; “but when I make my shrift, I will seek another confessor. Come, the morning passes, and ‘tis time we were wending towards the mountains. Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the fosterer and me, “our short companionship is about to terminate. If gallantry could attach me to brwe men, and make me regret a separation, I should have abundant reason to grieve that I am about to lose ye; but, sooth to say, for our wild warfare you are not exactly fitted, and, like my excellent camarado, the Cura, you have a little too much softness at the heart. From intelligence I have received since we first met, I would advise you to abandon your original intention of crossing the mountains to Valencia. Suchet’s movements are suspicious,—the roads are unsafe—crowded with ladrones—all desperate men, who would respect no passports, were they guaranteed by every authority in Spain. If you choose to persevere——”
“No, Don Juan,” I replied; “I will return to the allied cantonments. I have, in obedience to orders, endeavoured to reach my regiment. I have failed; and, to say truth, I don’t regret it. I shall resign my commission, if required, and serve under Lord Wellington a volunteer.”
“Such being your intention, I would recommend that you return by the shortest and openest route. Should you touch upon a French outpost, this gentleman will protect you,” and he pointed to Lieutenant Cammaran; “if you fall in with the allied cwalry, you will return the compliment; and should you tumble upon any friends of ours during the journey, you carry a passport that every partida on the peninsula will respect. Ho, Diego! bring me yonder writing-case. Fortunately, sir, you do not require it at present,” and the Empecinado smiled as he addressed the reprieved one.
“Thanks to these noble Englishmen, I do not,” returned the lieutenant.
“I beg your pardon,” replied Mr. O’Toole; “I can’t exactly tell what countryman I am, because I was born at sea.”
“Wine!” cried the Empecinado. “Ho, landlord! stir thyself. Thou know’st my taste—none of that sorry stuff that would poison a Manolo. Let’s have some fit for Christian men. Remember, honest Gonsalvez, thou hast rarely such honourable guests. Here are three foreigners of distinction; and there a holy churchman. Of my friend here,” and he pointed to El Manco, “I shall say nothing: and modesty forbids me speaking of myself. Come, let thy wine be good, or, by San Juan, we’ll quit thy venta altogether.”
With a low bow, the alarmed innkeeper hurried off. As he passed us, the expression of his countenance was ridiculously intelligent; and to the last sentence of the Empecinado, said, or seemed to say, “I wish to Heaven you would!”
The wine that the host produced no doubt was excellent, for its effect upon the company was marvellous. Juan Diez jested with the Curate; the Frenchman and fosterer conversed in broken English; occasionally El Manco vouchsafed a relaxation of the facial muscles, which he intended to represent a smile. All seemed happy but the innkeeper; and on his dull countenance terror and anxiety were imprinted. On him the lively sallies of his distinguished visitors were lost; and the only occurrence at which his sombre features lightened was when a guerilla entered the apartment, and announced that the horses were saddled in the yard.
While the party resumed their cloaks and weapons, the Empecinado beckoned to me, and I retired with him to a corner.
“Is there aught in which I can oblige you? Speak freely,” he said.
I thanked him, and answered him in the negative.
“How is thy pocket lined, my child?” was his next question.
I assured him my purse was liberally supplied.
“I can spare thee a dozen pistoles,” he added.
I acknowledged the kindness, but declined the offered subsidy.
He looked suspiciously around, and then took a packet from his bosom, and placed it in my hand, unseen.
“Conceal these papers, and deliver them carefully, with my duty to Lord Wellington. They are written in cipher; but I know that he has a key that will unravel their contents. I feel assured that they contain important information, for I have learned through a channel where I never was deceived, that the expedition of La Coste was originally intended for no other purpose, than to enable him to communicate with another commandant to whom he was directed to transfer these papers safely. A movement of two strong detachments to secure the delivery of a letter is a sufficient guarantee, my friend, that the contents are momentous. Let us go. El Manco is impatient. Outside the village we part—thou, to the low country; I to the mountains.”
“Art thou hearing a confession in yonder corner, Empecinado?” inquired the monk.
“No, Cura, I would not usurp the functions of the church with one of its brightest ornaments immediately beside me. I was merely giving my young friend here a slight hint of what Juan Diez has experienced, and I’ll once more repeat it.” Then, turning to me, he added aloud, “‘Tis an uncertain world, and many a brilliant opening in a young life has darkly closed. Should fortune frown, friends fall off, enemies prevail—in short, should thy young career be darkened as mine was suddenly, take thy chance with Juan Diez; and thou, my friend,” and the Spaniard addressed the fosterer, “thou, too, wilt any time be welcome; and, as we crossed the Sedana, we’ll swim or sink together.”
So saying, the guerilla pointed to the door. We took the hint, and passed on. There the worthy host stood, cap in hand, bowing us out, as it became customers of distinction. I would have stopped and demanded a reckoning, but Mark Antony was of opinion that such a proceeding might have been an offence in the sight of our patrons and protectors. Certainly, I saw no bill paid or delivered; and I have reason to believe that the guerilla leaders were of the school of ancient Pistol, and consequently gentlemen of too good taste to stoop to an inquiry into accounts. And yet proofs of disinterested regard were not wanting to Senhor Velasquez. I overheard the Empecinado, as he passed, impress on this favoured innkeeper the immediate necessity of replenishing his bins with better wine, and restoring his stable-loft, which needed repair sorely. In my presence certainly none of the circulating medium passed; and, to use fashionable parlance, I verily believe the unfortunate proprietor of the posada was regularly victimized by all.
We entered the court-yard; and, thank Heaven, for the last time. A score of guerillas, mounted and dismounted, were in waiting. Cammaran passed through with averted eyes; but I ventured a look at the well-remembered spot which, within eight-and-forty hours, had witnessed a double execution. The voltigeurs were lying as they fell; the bodies weltering in a pool of blood, or exhibiting, in other cases, no mark of violence whatever. One I passed by was a mere lad. His death must have been instantaneous—one fracture in the jacket was opposite the heart—the countenance was tranquil; and a smile played upon the lip. Could that be death? I knew it was, or I could have fancied well that he was dreaming of absent friends, and calmly indulging in a siesta.
I was delighted when we cleared the court-yard. El Manco and the Cura were waiting for us—presently, Juan Diez rode up; and, followed by an escort of some score of cavalry, we, for the last time, passed along the street of Villa Moro.
I had witnessed enough of guerilla life to render it thoroughly disgusting. War at best is bad; but “war to the knife” is only tolerable for savages. All the romance of partida daring had passed away. I had seen it in its naked light, and found its real character—a ruthless, reckless disregard to every feeling which binds mankind by a common tie—by turns suffering without complaint, and inflicting without compunction. Such were my impressions as I slowly rode along the village street; and had they needed any confirmation, the scene reserved for me would have been quite enough.
On the huge beech tree I had already remarked in front of the house of the chief magistrate, three human bodies were suspended. The Empecinado’s passing observation, and El Manco’s sarcastic address while dooming the unhappy offenders, came back vividly to my recollection. The sentence had indeed been executed to the very letter, and alcade, postmaster, and muleteer, were hanging precisely as the “maimed one” had decreed it.
The worst feature of the savage picture remained—six wretched orphans who had witnessed the expiring agonies of their father were still screaming from the windows from which they had seen him die, and from fear, insensibility, or both, their immediate neighbours dared not, or did not, offer the slightest mark of sympathy under a berewement that would have touched all but savage hearts. The fosterer turned pale; the Frenchman shuddered; the Empecinado regarded the dead men with a marble look.
“El Manco,” observed the Cura with a smile, “Jack Hangman has done thy bidding, and the alcade overtops his friends.”
“Ay,” returned the ‘maimed one;’ “this ever be the fate of traitors! Would that every oak in Spain bore such acorns as yonder beech tree!”
I was sick, nauseated, disgusted. Death—death in every shape! and from the bottom of my heart, I blessed God that my acquaintance with my excellent friends was to determine so speedily. Until we cleared the village I preserved an unbroken silence; and when Juan Diez pointed to a place where our respective roads branched off at the distance of a furlong, my bosom felt as if it were lightened of a load, and, as Doctor Pangloss says, “I breathed again.”