Читать книгу The Gold-Seekers: A Tale of California - Gustave Aimard - Страница 5

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On the 5th of July, 184-, at about six in the evening, a party of well-mounted horsemen started at a gallop from Guadalajara, the capital of the state of Jalisco, and proceeded along the road that traverses the village of Zapopan, celebrated for its miraculous virgin. After crossing the escarped summits of the Cordilleras, this road reaches the charming little town of Tepic, the usual refuge of those Europeans and rich Mexicans whom business carries to San Blas, but to whom the insalubrity of the air breathed in that port, the maritime arsenal of the Mexican union, would be mortal.

We have said that six o'clock was striking as the cavalcade passed the gateway. The officer of the watch, after bowing respectfully to the travellers, watched them for a long time, then re-entered the guardroom, shaking his head, and muttering to himself,—

"Heaven save me! What can Colonel Guerrero be thinking of, to set out on a Friday, and at such an hour as this? Does he fancy that the salteadores will allow him to pass? Hum! He will see what they are about at the barranca del mal paso (the gorge of the evil step)."

The travellers, however, probably unaffected by the superstitious fears that ruled the worthy officer, rapidly sped on the long poplar alley that extends from the town to Zapopan, caring neither for the advanced hour nor the ill-omened day of the week.

They were six in number—Colonel Sebastian Guerrero, his daughter, and four peons, or Indian criados. The colonel was a tall man, with harsh, marked features, and a bronzed complexion. The few silvery threads mingled with his black hair showed that he had passed middle life, although his robust limbs, upright stature, and the brilliancy of his glance denoted that years had not yet gained the mastery over this vigorous organisation. He wore the uniform of a Mexican field officer with the ease and nonchalance peculiar to old soldiers; but, in addition to the sabre hanging by his side, his holsters held pistols; and a rifle laid across the saddle-bow proved that, in case of need, he would offer a vigorous resistance to any robbers who ventured to attack him.

His daughter, Doña Angela, rode on his right hand. In Europe, where the growth of girls is not nearly so precocious as in America, she would only have been a child; for she counted scarce thirteen summers. As far as could be judged, she was slight, but graceful, and perfectly proportioned; her features were delicate and noble; her mouth laughing; her eyes black, quick, and flashing with wit; while her brown hair fell in two enormous tresses down upon her horse. She was wrapped up coquettishly in her rebozo, and laughed madly at every bound of her steed, which she maliciously tormented, in spite of her father's reiterated remonstrances.

The servants were powerfully-built Indians, armed to the teeth, and appeared capable of defending their master in case of need. They rode some ten paces behind the colonel, and led two mules loaded with provisions and baggage—an indispensable precaution in Mexico, if travellers do not wish to die of hunger by the way.

Mexico combines all the climates of the globe. From the icy peaks of the Cordilleras, down to the burning coasts of the ocean, the traveller in that country undergoes every temperature. Hence this vast territory has been divided into three distinct zones: las tierras calientes, or hot lands, composed of the plains on the seashore, and which produce sugar, indigo, and cotton in truly tropical abundance; las tierras templadas, or temperate lands, regions formed by the Cordilleras, and which enjoy an eternal spring, great heat and extreme cold being equally unknown there; and lastly, las tierras frias, or cold lands, which include the central plateaux, and where the temperature is relatively much lower than in the other zones.

Still we should remark that in Mexico the expressions "heat," and "cold," have not an absolute value as in Europe, and that the lofty plateaux, known as the tierras frias, enjoy a temperature like that of Lombardy, which would seem to any European a very pleasant climate. Owing to its position, Guadalajara shares in two of the three zones that divide Mexico. Situated on the limit of the tierra caliente and the tierra templada, the tepid breezes and pure sky reveal the warm regions of the seaboard, which extend thus far. The arid sands are succeeded by fertile and well-cultivated plains, fields of sugar-cane, Indian corn, bananas, goyaviers, and other productions of the tropical flora. By degrees the gloomy black oaks and pines, which only grow on the mountains, become rarer, and eventually disappear entirely, to make room for poplars, fan-palms, calabash trees, sumachs, Peru trees, and thousands of others, which proudly wave their superb crowns over the spontaneous vegetation that surrounds them.

In las tierras calientes, where the heat of the day is stifling, persons generally only travel from five to eleven A.M., and from three in the afternoon till ten at night, so as to enjoy the morning and evening freshness. Colonel Guerrero had, therefore, only conformed to the general custom by commencing his journey in the evening; but, as so often occurs, he had started later than he wished, owing to those numberless obstacles which ever supervene at the moment of departure, and cause a lengthened delay for no visible reason. But the colonel cared little about the advanced hour: a night march possessed no terrors for him, as he had been accustomed for years to modify his humour by circumstances, and yield to the exigencies of the situation in which he found himself.

The sun set behind the Peak of Teguilla, and the Cerro del Col disappeared in the centre of the chain of tall, abrupt hills which borders the Rio Tololotlan: gradually the scene was veiled in darkness. The travellers progressed gaily conversing together, while following the winding and accidented course of the Rio Grande del Norte, along whose banks their road ran. The latter was wide, well made, and easy to follow. Hence the colonel, after taking a careful glance around to assure himself there was nothing suspicious in the neighbourhood, trusted entirely to the vigilance of the criados, and resumed the conversation with his daughter, which he had for a moment broken off.

"Angela, my child," he said to her, "you are wrong to tease your horse so. Rebecca is a good beast, very gentle, and very sure-footed; and you should be more merciful to her than you are."

"I assure you, papa," the pretty girl answered with a laugh, "I am not in the least teasing Rebecca; on the contrary, I am only tickling her to render her lively."

"Yes, and to make her dance too, as I can plainly see, little madcap. That would be all very well if we were only taking a ride for a few hours, instead of a journey which will last a month. Remember, niña, that a rider must also treat his horse carefully if he wish to reach his destination safe, and sound. You would not like, I fancy, to be left on the road by your horse."

"Heaven forbid, father! If it be so, I will obey you. Rebecca may be at ease in future; I will not tease her."

And, while speaking thus, she bent over her horse's neck and gently patted it.

"There!" the colonel continued, "now that peace, as I suppose, is made between you, what do you think of our way of travelling? Does it please you?"

"I think it charming, father; the night is magnificent, the moon lights us as if it were day; the breeze is fresh, and yet not cold. I never was so happy."

"All the better, my child. I am the more pleased to hear you speak thus, because I so feared the effects of such a journey for you, that I was on the point of leaving you at the convent."

"Thank you, father, for having changed your mind, and bringing me with you. I was so wearied with that wretched convent; and then it is so long since I have seen my dear mother, whom I long to embrace."

"This time, child, you will have ample leisure to do so for I propose leaving you with your mother."

"Then I shall not return to Guadalajara with you?"

"No, child; you will live at my large hacienda, Aguas Frescas, with your mother and my most faithful servants, during the period of my absence; for so soon as I have ended the urgent business that demands my presence at San Blas, I shall go to Mexico and join General Santa Anna. His Excellency has done me the honour to send for me."

"Oh!" she said, clasping her hands in entreaty, "you ought to take me with you to the ciudad."

"Little madcap, you know perfectly well that is impossible; but on my return I will bring you and your mother the finest things from the Portales des Mercaderes and the Parian, in order that you may eclipse the most coquettish señoras of Tepic, when it may please you to walk on the Alameda of the Pueblo."

"Oh! That is not the same thing," she said with a charming pout; "and yet," she added, suddenly regaining her good humour, "I thank you, father; for you are kind—you love me; and when you do not satisfy my whims, it is because you find it impossible."

"I am glad that you recognise that fact, and at length do me justice, little rattle-brain; for you spend your life in teasing me."

The girl began laughing, and by a sudden impulse letting her reins fall, she threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed him several times.

"Take care what you are about," the colonel said, at once happy and alarmed. "If Rebecca were to bolt you would be killed. Take up your reins at once, I say!"

"Nonsense!" she said, laughing, and shaking her brown tresses carelessly; "Rebecca is too well trained to behave in such a way."

Still she caught up her reins and settled herself in her saddle.

"Angelita mia," the father continued, perhaps more seriously than the circumstances demanded, "you are no longer a child. You ought to begin to grow more reasonable, and moderate the vivacity of your character."

"Do you scold me for loving you, my father?"

"Heaven forbid, my child! I only make a remark which I consider just; for, if you yield in this way to your first impressions, you will prepare great grief for yourself at a future day."

"Do not think that, my kind father. I am quick, careless, impressionable, that is true; but, by the side of those defects, I have the family pride I derive from you, and which will defend me from many faults."

"I hope so, my daughter."

"Do not assume that stern air for a harmless act of folly, father, or I shall fancy that you are angry with me." Then she added, with a laugh, "I remember that our family descends in a straight line from the Mexican king, Chimalpopocatzin, who, as his name indicates, had for his emblem a buckler from which smoke is issuing. You see, father, our character has not degenerated since that valorous king, and we have ever remained as firm as he was himself."

"Come, come," the colonel said good-humouredly, "I shall give up scolding you in future, for I see that it is labour wasted."

The girl smiled maliciously, and was about to reply, when a flash of light was seen in front of the party.

"What is that?" the colonel asked, raising his voice. "Is there anyone on the road?"

"I think so, colonel," one of the domestics answered at once, "for that flash seems to me produced by the flint of a mechero.

"That is my opinion too," the colonel said. "Let us hasten on, in order to see this delayed smoker."

The little band, which had hitherto proceeded at a slow pace, broke into an amble. At the expiration of an hour, at the same time as the sound of a horse's hoofs reached the travellers, they also heard the shrill and discordant sounds of a jarana (guitar), and the refrain of the following song, so familiar in Mexico, was borne on the breeze:—

"Sin pena vivamos

En calma feliz:

Gozar es mi estrella,

Cantar y reir."[1]

"Bravo!" the colonel shouted, who reached the singer at this moment. "Bravely and joyously said, comrade!"

The latter, with a husk cigarette in his mouth, bowed his head in affirmation, and defiantly twanged an air on his jarana; then, throwing it across his shoulder, where it was held by a species of brace, he turned to his addresser, and ceremoniously doffed his vicuna-skin hat.

"May God protect you, caballero!" he said politely. "It seems that the music pleases you."

"Greatly," the colonel answered, scarce able to retain his laughter at the sight of the singular person before him.

He was a tall fellow of eight-and-twenty at the most, marvellously thin, dressed in a ragged jacket, and haughtily folded in a cloak, whose primitive colour it was impossible to recognise, and which was as full of holes as a sieve. Still, in spite of this apparent wretchedness and starving face, the man had a joyous and decided expression about him, which it was a pleasure to look upon. His little black eyes, which looked as if pierced by an auger, sparkled with humour, and his manner had something distingué about it. He was mounted on a horse as thin and lanky as himself, against whose hollow flanks beat the straight sword called a machete, which the Mexicans continually wear at their side, passed through an iron ring instead of a sheath.

"You are very late on the road, compañero," the colonel continued, whose escort had by this time caught him up. "Is it prudent for you to travel alone at this hour?"

"What have I to fear?" the stranger replied. "What salteador would be such a fool as to stop me?"

"Who knows?" the colonel remarked with a smile. "Appearances are often deceitful, and it is not a bad plan to pretend poverty, in order to travel in safety along the high roads of our beloved country."

Though uttered purposelessly, these words visibly troubled the stranger; still he at once recovered, and continued in a hearty voice,—

"Unfortunately for me, any feint is useless. I am really as poor as I seem at this moment, although I have seen happier days, and my cloak was not always so ragged as you now see it."

The colonel, perceiving that the subject of conversation was disagreeable to his new acquaintance, said,—

"As you did not stop either at San Pedro or at Zapopan, for I presume that, like myself, you came from Guadalajara——"

"It is true," the stranger interrupted him; "I quitted the city about three in the afternoon."

"I suppose," the colonel continued, "that you intend to halt at the mesón of San Juan; so, if you have no objection, we will proceed thither together, for I intend to halt for the night there."

"The mesón of San Juan is a good hostelry," the other said, respectfully lifting his hand to his hat; "but what shall I do there? I have not an ochavo to expend uselessly, and have far to go. I will bivouac on the road; and while my horse, poor brute, is sucking its bit, I will smoke cigarettes, and sing that romance of King Rodrigo, which, as you are aware, commences thus."

And quickly bringing his guitar to the front, he began singing in a loud voice,—

"Cuando las pintadas aves

Mudas están, y la tierra

Atenta escucha los rio

Que al mar su tributo llevan:

Al escaso resplandor—"[2]

"Eh!" the colonel exclaimed, brusquely interrupting, "what musical rage possesses you? It is frenzy."

"No," the singer replied in melancholy mood; "it is philosophy."

The colonel examined the poor fellow for a moment; then drawing nearer to him,—

"I am Colonel Don Sebastian Guerrero de Chimalpos. I am travelling with my daughter and a few servants. Grant me the honour of your company for this night: tomorrow we will separate, and go our several ways."

The stranger hesitated for a moment, and frowned. This shade of dissatisfaction, however, soon disappeared.

"I am a proud fool," he replied with affecting frankness; "misery renders me so susceptible that I fancy people are ever trying to humiliate me. I accept your gracious invitation as frankly as it is offered. Perhaps I may be able to prove my gratitude to you ere long."

The colonel paid no great attention to these words, because, just at the moment, the party arrived at the mesón of San Juan, whose lighted windows had revealed its proximity to the travellers for some time past.

[1] Let us live without annoyance in a happy calm: playing is my star, singing and laughing.

[2] When the spangled birds are dumb, and the attentive earth listens to the rivers that bear their tribute to the sea by the weak light—.