The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

      The moving line was not straight up and down the cliff, but zigzagged along its face. I could tell there was a path.

      At its lower end, and already down near the “plan” of the river (Plan del Rio), I perceived a group of men, dressed in dark uniforms. There were points on the more sombre background of their vestments that kept constantly scintillating in the sun. These were gold or gilt buttons, epaulettes, steel scabbards of sabres, or bands of lace.

      It was easy to tell that the individuals thus adorned were officers, notwithstanding the fact that, as officers, they were at the wrong end of the retreating line.

      I carried a lorgnette, which I had already taken out of its case. I directed it towards the opposite side of the ravine, upon the dark head of that huge caterpillar sinuously descending the cliff.

      I could distinguish the individuals of this group. One was receiving attentions from the rest—even assistance. The Mexican Caesar was easily recognised. His halting gait, as he descended the sloping path, or swung himself from, ledge to ledge, betrayed the cork leg of El Cojo.

      A mule stood ready saddled at the bottom of the precipice. I saw Santa Anna descend and approach it. I saw him, aided by others, mount in the saddle. I saw him ride off, followed by a disordered crowd of frightened fugitives, who, on reaching the chapparal, took to their heels with the instinct of sauve qui peut.

      I looked up the valley of the river. It was enclosed by precipitous “bluffs,” as far as the eye could reach; but on that side where we had planted our battery—scarce a mile above our position—a line of black heavy timber told me there was a lateral ravine leading outwards in the direction of Orizava. The retreating troops of Santa Anna must either find exit by this ravine, keep on up the stream, or risk running back into the teeth of their pursuers on the opposite side of the river.

      I hurried back to the battery, and reported what I had seen. I could have made my colonel a general—a hero—had he been of the right stuff.

      “ ’Tis an easy game, colonel; we have only to intercept them at the head of yonder dark line of timber. We can be there before them!”

      “Nonsense, captain! We have orders to guard this battery. We must not leave it.”

      “May I take my own men?”

      “No! not a man must be taken away from the guns.”

      “Give me fifty!”

      “I cannot spare them.”

      “Give me twenty; I shall bring Santa Anna back here in less than an hour.”

      “Impossible! There are thousands with him. We shall be lucky if they don’t turn this way. There are only three hundred of us, and there must be over a thousand of them.”

      “You refuse to give me twenty men?”

      “I can’t spare a man. We may need them all, and more.”

      “I shall go alone.”

      I was half mad. The glory that might have been so easily won was placed beyond my reach by this overcautious imbecile.

      I was almost foolish enough to have flung myself over the cliff, or rushed alone into the midst of the retreating foes.

      I left the battery and walked slowly away out of sight of my superior. I continued along the counterscarp of the cliff, until I had reached the edge of the lateral ravine leading out from the river valley. I crouched behind the thick tussocks of the zamias. I saw the retreating tyrant, mounted on his mule, ride past, almost within range of my rifle bullet! I saw a thousand men crowding closely after, so utterly routed and demoralised that nothing could have induced them to stand another shot. I was convinced that my original idea was in perfect correspondence with the truth, and that with the help of a score of determined men I could have made prisoners of the whole “ruck.”

      Instead of this triumph, my only achievement in the battle of Cerro Gordo was to call my colonel a coward, for which I was afterwards confined to close quarters, and only recovered the right to range abroad on the eve of a subsequent battle, when it was thought that my sword might be of more service than my condemnation by court-martial.

      Of such a nature were my thoughts as I lay under canvas on the field of Cerro Gordo on the night succeeding the battle.

      “Agua! por amor Dios, agua—aguita!”

      These words reaching my ear, and now a second time pronounced, broke in upon the train of my reflections.

      They were not the only sounds disturbing the tranquillity of that calm tropic night. From other parts of the field, though in a different direction and more distant, I could hear many voices speaking in a similar strain, in tones of agonised appeal, low mutterings, mingled with moanings, where some mutilated foeman was struggling in the throes of death, and vainly calling for help that came not.

      On that night, from the field of Cerro Gordo, many a soul soared upward to eternity—many a brave man went to sleep with unclosed eyes, a sleep from which he was never more to awaken.

      In what remained of twilight after my arrival on the ground, I had visited all the wounded within the immediate vicinity of my post—all that I could find—for the field of battle was in reality a wood, or rather a thicket; and no doubt there were many who escaped my observation.

      I had done what little was in the power of myself and a score of companions—soldiers of my corps—to alleviate the distress of the sufferers: for, although they were our enemies, we had not the slightest feeling of hostility towards them. There had been such in the morning, but it was gone ere the going down of the sun, leaving only compassion in its place.

      Yielding simply to the instincts of humanity, I had done my best in binding up wounds, many of them that I knew to be mortal; and only when worn out by fatigue, absolutely “done up,” had I sought a tent, under the shelter of which it was necessary I should pass the night.

      It was after a long spell of sleep, extending into the mid-hours of the night, that I was awakened from my slumbers, and gave way to the reflections above detailed. It was then that I heard that earnest call for water; it was then I heard the more distant voices, and mingled with them the howling bark of the coyote, and the far more terrible baying of the large Mexican wolf. In concert with such choristers, no wonder the human voices were uttered in tones especially earnest and lugubrious.

      “Agua! par amor Dios, agua, aguita!”

      For the third time I listened to this piteous appeal. It surprised me a little. I thought I had placed a vessel of water within the reach of every one of the wounded wretches who lay near my tent. Had this individual been overlooked?

      Perhaps he had drunk what had been left him, and thirsted for more! In any case, the earnest accents in which the solicitation was repeated, told me that he was thirsting with a thirst that tortured him.

      I waited for another, the fourth repetition of the melancholy cry. Once more I heard it.

      This time I had listened with more attention. I could perceive in the pronunciation a certain provincialism, which proclaimed the speaker a peasant, but one of a special class. The por amor Dios, instead of being drawled out in the whine of the regular alms-asker, was short and slurred. It fell upon the ear as if the a in amor was omitted, and also the initial letter in aguita. The phrase ran:—“Agua! por ’mor Dios, ’gua, aguita!”

      I recognised in those abbreviations the patois of a peculiar people, the denizens of the coast of Vera Cruz, and the tierra caliente—the Jarochos.

      The sufferer did not appear to be at any great distance from my tent—perhaps a hundred paces, or two hundred at most. I could no longer lend a deaf ear to his outcries.

      I started up from my catre—a camp-bedstead, which my tent contained—groped, and found my canteen, not forgetting the brandy-flask, and, sallying forth into the night,