The Rifle Rangers. Reid Mayne

long, jointed fingers of Death himself.

      As my bewildered brain took in these objects I heard a noise in the bushes as of persons engaged in an angry struggle.

      “Emile, Emile!” cried a female voice, “you shall not murder him – you shall not!”

      “Off! off! – Marie, let me go!” was shouted in the rough accents of a man.

      “Oh, no!” continued the female, “you shall not – no – no – no!”

      “Curses on the woman! There, let me go now!”

      There was a sound as of someone struck with violence – a scream – and at the same moment a human figure rushed out of the bushes, and, confronting me, exclaimed: “Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine! coup pour coup!” I heard no more; a heavy blow, descending upon my temples, deprived me of all power, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I returned to consciousness the first objects I saw were the huge brown whiskers of Lincoln, then Lincoln himself, then the pale face of the boy Jack; and, finally, the forms of several soldiers of my company. I saw that I was in my own tent and stretched upon my camp-bed.

      “What? – howl – what’s the matter! – what’s this?” I said, raising my hands to the bandage of wet linen that bound my temples.

      “Keep still, Cap’n,” said Bob, taking my hand from the fillet and placing it by my side.

      “Och! by my sowl, he’s over it; thank the Lord for His goodness!” said Chane, an Irish soldier.

      “Over what? what has happened to me?” I inquired.

      “Och, Captin, yer honour, you’ve been nearly murthered, and all by thim Frinch scoundhrels; bad luck to their dirty frog-atin’ picthers!”

      “Murdered! French scoundrels! Bob, what is it?”

      “Why, yer see, Cap’n, ye’ve had a cut hyur over the head; and we think it’s them Frenchmen.”

      “Oh! I remember now; a blow – but the Death? – the Death?”

      I started up from the bed as the phantom of my night adventure returned to my imagination.

      “The Death, Cap’n? – what do yer mean?” inquired Lincoln, holding me in his strong arms.

      “Oh! the Cap’n manes the skilleton, maybe,” said Chane.

      “What skeleton?” I demanded.

      “Why, an owld skilleton the boys found in the chaparril, yer honner. They hung it to a three; and we found yer honner there, with the skilleton swinging over ye like a sign. Och! the Frinch bastes!”

      I made no further inquiries about the “Death.”

      “But where are the Frenchmen?” asked I, after a moment.

      “Clane gone, yer honner,” replied Chane.

      “Gone?”

      “Yes, Cap’n; that’s so as he sez it,” answered Lincoln.

      “Gone! What do you mean?” I inquired.

      “Desarted, Cap’n.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Because they ain’t here.”

      “On the island?”

      “Searched it all – every bush.”

      “But who? which of the French?”

      “Dubrosc and that ’ar boy that was always with him – both desarted.”

      “You are sure they are missing?”

      “Looked high and low, Cap’n. Gravenitz seed Dubrosc steal into the chaparril with his musket. Shortly afterwards we heern a shot, but thought nothin’ of it till this mornin’, when one of the sodgers foun’ a Spanish sombrary out thar; and Chane heern some’dy say the shot passed through Major Twing’s markey. Besides, we foun’ this butcher-knife where yer was lyin’.”

      Lincoln here held up a species of Mexican sword called a macheté.

      “Ha! – well.”

      “That’s all, Cap’n; only it’s my belief there was Mexicans on this island, and them Frenchmen’s gone with them.”

      After Lincoln left me I lay musing on this still somewhat mysterious affair. My memory, however, gradually grew clearer; and the events of the preceding night soon became linked together, and formed a complete chain. The shot that passed so near my head in Twing’s tent – the boat – the French words I had heard before I received the blow – and the exclamation, “Coup pour coup!” – all convinced me that Lincoln’s conjectures were right.

      Dubrosc had fired the shot and struck the blow that had left me senseless.

      But who could the woman be whose voice I had heard pleading in my behalf?

      My thoughts reverted to the boy who had gone off with Dubrosc, and whom I had often observed in the company of the latter. A strange attachment appeared to exist between them, in which the boy seemed to be the devoted slave of the strong fierce Creole. Could this be a woman?

      I recollected having been struck with his delicate features, the softness of his voice, and the smallness of his hands. There were other points, besides, in the tournure of the boy’s figure that had appeared singular to me. I had frequently observed the eyes of this lad bent upon me, when Dubrosc was not present, with a strange and unaccountable expression.

      Many other peculiarities connected with the boy and Dubrosc, which at the time had passed unnoticed and unheeded, now presented themselves to my recollection, all tending to prove the identity of the boy with the woman whose voice I had heard in the thicket.

      I could not help smiling at the night’s adventures; determined, however, to conceal that part which related to the skeleton.

      In a few days my strength was restored. The cut I had received was not deep – thanks to my forage-cap and the bluntness of the Frenchman’s weapon.

      Chapter Six.

      The Landing at Sacrificios

      Early in the month of March the troops at Lobos were re-embarked, and dropped down to the roadstead of Anton Lizardo. The American fleet was already at anchor there, and in a few days above a hundred sail of transports had joined it.

      There is no city, no village, hardly a habitation upon this half-desert coast. The aspect is an interminable waste of sandy hills, rendered hirsute and picturesque by the plumed frondage of the palm-tree.

      We dared not go ashore, although the smooth white beach tempted us strongly. A large body of the enemy was encamped behind the adjacent ridges, and patrols could be seen at intervals galloping along the beach.

      I could not help fancying what must have been the feeling of the inhabitants in regard to our ships – a strange sight upon this desert coast, and not a pleasing one to them, knowing that within those dark hulls were concealed the hosts of their armed invaders. Laocoon looked not with more dread upon the huge ribs of the Danaic horse than did the simple peasant of Anahuac upon this fleet of “oak leviathans” that lay within so short a distance of his shores.

      To us the scene possessed an interest of a far different character. We looked proudly upon these magnificent models of naval architecture – upon their size, their number, and their admirable adaptation. We viewed with a changing cheek and kindling eye this noble exhibition of a free people’s strength; and as the broad banner of our country swung out upon the breeze of the tropics, we could not help exulting in the glory of that great nation whose uniform we wore around our bodies.

      It was no dream. We saw the burnished cannon and the bright epaulette, the gleaming button and the glancing bayonet. We heard the startling trumpet, the stirring drum, and the shrill and thrilling fife; and our souls drank in all those glorious sights and sounds that form at once the spirit and the witchery of war.

      The landing was to take place on the 9th, and the point of debarkation fixed upon was the beach opposite the island of