The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

was passing; but it was not until he had been carried within the tent, and his wound carefully dressed by the ex-hospital assistant, that I consented to an interview between him and his “querida Lola.”

      Mistrusting the effect of any sudden excitement—even though caused by joy—I had entreated the girl to remain out of sight; and though suffering from a painful impatience to speak to her beloved Calros, she had obeyed me.

      Being assured by the improvised surgeon that there was no real danger; that the wound was not likely to prove fatal; and that the syncope of the wounded man had been caused by weakness from loss of blood, I withdrew the restriction.

      In an instant after, the beautiful Lola flew into the arms of her lover.

      It was an affecting scene, and touched even my rude companions, who stood around the catre. To me it was not pleasant—I might almost say it was painful—to listen to that interchange of endearing epithets. I coveted the caresses that were being lavished upon the handsome Jarocho.

      Soon the soldiers withdrew, to resume their interrupted repose, the hospital assistant going with the rest. I was left in the tent with Calros and Lola.

      I could not help envying the invalid. For the sake of being tended by such a nurse, I would willingly have changed situations with him!

      Lola had heard the assurance given by the hospital assistant, and communicated it to the wounded man. There was no longer the dread of death to hinder them from indulging in a free interchange of thought.

      Perhaps they had something to say to each other which should not be overheard by any one? Under the idea that my presence might be a restraint, I withdrew; I shall not say without reluctance.

      Throwing my cloak over my shoulders, I walked out of the tent, leaving them alone.

      The night was still; the silence more solemn than ever. Not a sound disturbed it. Even the moanings of the disabled men, who lay here and there over the field of battle, which at an earlier hour had been well nigh continuous, seemed now to have ceased.

      I was astonished by this circumstance, and mentally endeavoured to account for it. Perhaps the report of my pistol had awed them into silence, under the belief that the “strippers” were abroad, and that it was better to endure their agonies in silence than to guide those vultures in their villainous search! This was the only explanation I could think of.

      I strolled off into the chapparal; but I soon found my way back into the neighbourhood of the tent. Under that piece of spread canvas, rendered luminous by the lamp burning inside, there was an attraction that drew me nearer and nearer. It was irresistible; and involuntarily yielding to it, I at length found myself in front of the arcade-like entrance, gazing inward.

      The flap was thrown back; and I could see the occupants inside, the invalid stretched upon the catre, lying on his back as we had left him, the girl bending over him, her eyes fixed steadily upon his face. I could see that he was asleep; but not the less affectionately were those beautiful eyes bent upon his slumbering features.

      The tableau should have gratified;—it tortured me!

      I turned away to escape from an emotion—evil, as it was unpleasant.

      I walked over the ground, lately the arena of the enemy’s camp, among other tents that stood near. There were not many of them. Arbours formed by the interlacing of branches, and thatched with reeds and grass, had constituted the chief shelter of Santa Anna’s soldiers.

      His superior officers only had been provided with tents, of which not more than a dozen were now standing.

      Several of them I entered. They were not all empty, though their living occupants had deserted them. Three or four I found tenanted by the dead. Stretched upon catres, or lying upon the floor, were the bodies of men whose uniforms showed them to have been officers of high rank.

      One lay so near to the entrance of a tent, that the moonbeams, slanting inward through the opening of the canvas, fell full upon his face. He was a man of magnificent form, with a countenance that even in death might be termed handsome. His complexion was a dark olive, his features perfectly regular, with a coal-black moustache and chin-beard. His dress was half civilian, half military, with insignia embroidered upon the shoulder-straps, proclaiming him a general of division. His name I learnt afterwards, Vasquez, one of the bravest of our foes, who had gallantly held his position on the hill of El Telegrafo till the last moment for retreating. A bullet through the groin terminated what might otherwise have been a brilliant career; and he had been carried to his tent only to die.

      No attempt had been made to dress his wound. It was perhaps looked upon as hopeless; and in the panic of retreat even an officer of rank is oft neglected. Over the groin his trousers had been torn open, as if done to examine the wound, and the sky-blue cloth, of which the garment was composed, was saturated with blood, now dark and dry. Its salt odour pervaded the atmosphere, and I was about returning outward; for, attracted by the distinguished appearance of the dead body, I had stepped inside the tent to examine it; when a singular, I might say a startling, observation, caused me to remain where I was.

      The corpse lay upon its back, the head about midway upon the floor of the tent, with the feet protruding beyond the canvas on the outside, a little to one side of the entrance. It was the feet, in fact, first seen, that had drawn my attention; and the peculiar chaussure which they displayed caused me to stoop down and examine them. They were encased in elegant russet boots—such as were worn in the time of the second Charles, and now only seen upon the stage. A pair of bright spurs buckled over them, sparkled in the moonlight.

      Had I not looked inside at the body, to which this singular chaussure belonged, I might have fancied a cavalier of the olden time asleep within the tent; but the very oddness of the foot-gear influenced me to examine the individual to whom it appertained.

      Stepping up to the entrance, my eyes had fallen upon the handsome face; but as my own shadow hindered me from thoroughly examining it, I had gone inside to obtain a better view.

      It was after I had completed the observations above detailed that I became witness of the spectacle that startled me.

      As I have said, I was on the point of returning out of the tent. To do so it would be necessary for me to pass close to the corpse, in fact, to step over it, as I had done on going inside. As I raised my foot to effect this purpose, I fancied that the body moved!

      In surprise I drew back my foot, and stood watching, not without a feeling of fear.

      The feeling was not diminished, but increased almost to the degree of horror, when I became convinced that what I saw was no fancy—no optical illusion. The body had actually moved, and was still in motion!

      Had I not observed the motion, the change of posture would have convinced me it was taking place: for the head, originally lying in the middle of the tent, was now nearer its edge, and gradually, but surely, approaching the circle of canvas!

      All doubt would have been removed—had any existed—when I saw the corpse give, or rather receive, a sudden jerk, which brought the head close in to the canvas.

      I could stay no longer inside that tent; and with a single bound I carried myself clear of the entrance.

      No sooner did I get outside, than I was relieved from the influence of the supernatural. A perfectly natural—perhaps I should say unnatural—cause divested the phenomenon of its mystery. A man was in the act of stripping General Vasquez of his boots!

      With shame I recognised the uniform of an American rifleman.

      In justice to that uniform be it told, that the man was not an American, but a worthless mongrel, half Jew, half German; who on more than one occasion had received chastisement for strange crimes, and who afterwards, in a future battle—as I have good reason to know—fired his traitorous bullet at my own back.

      “Laundrich! ruffian!” I cried.