Eugene P. Lyle

“It may be short, it may be long,
’Tis reckoning-day!’ sneers unpaid Wrong.”

–Lowell.

It was a long column that undulated over the cacti plain with the turnings of the national highway. Men and horses bent like whitened spectres under a cloud of saltpetre dust. They burned with thirst, and had burned during fifteen days of forced marching over bad roads. They kept their ranks after the manner of soldiers, else they would have seemed a hurrying mob, for there was scant boast of uniforms. The officers wore shoulder straps of green or yellow, and some of the men had old military caps, high and black, with manta flaps protecting the neck.

Except for an occasional pair of guaraches, or sandals, the infantry trudged barefoot, little leather-heeled Mercuries who cared nothing for thorns. Their olive faces, running with sweat, were for the most part typically humble, patient under fatigue, lethargic before peril. Here and there one held the hand of his soldadera, like him a stoic brown creature, who shared his hardships that she might be near to grind his ration of corn into tortillas. Veterans were there who had fought the French at Puebla, and on coarse frayed shirts displayed their heroes’ medals. Some among them had meantime served the Empire, and had lately deserted back again–but no matter. In the cavalry there were those who on a time had ridden against the Americans in Santa Anna’s famous guard. Now 370they rode with Driscoll, among the Missourians. And the Missourians sang:

Their mouths opened wide to the salty dust, and they roared with great-lunged humor, the stentor note of Tall Mose Bledsoe–Colonel Bledsoe of the State of Pike–far and away in the van of the chorus. Even the Mexicans, who comprised over half the regiment, chanted forth the tune. They had heard it often enough, and thought it a species of appropriate national hymn. Only the colonel of the troop rode in silence, but not gloomily. This playfulness of his pet before a snarl was music that he liked. The other Missouri colonels (brevet) were as boys ever, were still only Joe Shelby’s “young men for war.” There was Colonel Marmaduke of Platte. There was Colonel Crittenden of Nodaway. There was Colonel Grinders from the Ozarks. There was Colonel Clay of Carroll, and Colonel Carroll of Clay. These were captains. Colonel Bledsoe was a major, and so was Colonel Boone, also chief of scouts. Colonel Clayburn, otherwise the “Doc” of Benton, was ranking surgeon; while the chaplain, lovingly known as “Old Brothers and Sisters,” and the choicest fighter among them, was lieutenant-colonel.

Of course some of the four or five hundred colonels had to be privates. But they did not mind, they were colonels just the same. Which provoked complications, especially with a Kansan who had wandered among them some time since. The Kansan, whose name was Collins, was an ex-Federal, even one of their ancient and warmest enemies, of the Sixth Kansas Cavalry. And being a mettlesome young man into the bargain, he rose by unanimous consent to command a native company of the troop. But Captain Collins found it hard to address a 371Missouri private as colonel, and to be addressed by the Missouri private as an inferior in rank. A sporadic outburst of jayhawker warfare generally ensued. But according to the merger treaty between the Republic of Colonels and the RepÚblica Mexicana, the Missourian was strictly in his rights. Besides, both needed the exercise, and after the business of fists, formality dropped of itself. Captain Collins thereupon became “Harry;” and the private “Ben” or “Jim,” or whatever else.

Driscoll’s troop wanted for nothing. Regimentals, luckily, were not considered a want. But in replacing worn-out slouch hats and cape-coats, the Americans set an approximate standard, which was observed also by their fellow troopers among the Mexicans. They were able to procure sombreros, wide-brimmed and high-peaked, of mouse-colored beaver with a rope of silver. The officers and many of the men had long Spanish capas, or cloaks, which were black and faced in gray velvet. Their coats were short charro jackets. As armor against cacti, they either had “chaps” or trousers “foxed” over in leather, with sometimes a Wild Western fringe. They came to be known as the Gray Troop, or the Gringo Grays. The natives themselves were proudest of the latter title.

The brigade marched as victors, but they remembered how they had formerly skulked as hunted guerrillas, and also, how Mendez had scourged the dissident villages. They found bodies hanging to trees. At Morelia a citizen who cried “Viva la Libertad!” had been brained with a sabre. It was the hour for reprisals. And RÉgules exacted suffering of the mocho, or clerical, towns that had sheltered the “traitors.” Requisitions for arms, horses, and provisions marked his path. Deserters swelled his ranks. He had enough left-overs from the evacuation to organize what in irony he called his Foreign Legion. At AcÁmbaro a second Republican army, under General Corona–“welcomer than a stack of blues,” as Boone said–more 372than doubled their force, and together they hastened on to QuerÉtero.

But at Celaya, when men were thinking of rest in the cool monasteries there, they learned that they must not pause. The word came from El Chaparrito, who ever watched the Empire as a hawk poised in mid-air. General Escobedo of the Army of the North had pursued Miramon south into QuerÉtero, but only to find him reinforced there by Mendez and the troops from the capital. This superior array meant to attack Escobedo, then turn and destroy Corona and RÉgules. The Republicans, therefore, must be united at once.

The message was no sooner heard than the two weary brigades of Corona and RÉgules set forth again. They covered the remaining thirty miles that night, expecting a victorious Imperialist army at each bend in the road. But they met instead, toward morning, a lone Imperialist horseman galloping toward them. RÉgules’s sharp eyes caught the glint of the stranger’s white gold-bordered sombrero, and with a large Castilian oath he plucked out his revolver. Driscoll touched his arm soothingly.

“But, MarÍa purÍsima,” cried RÉgules, “he’s an Explorador!”

The Exploradores were Mendez’s scouts, his bloodhounds for a Republican trail, and the most hated of all that breed.

“Aye, SeÑor General,” the stranger now spoke, “I was even the capitan of Exploradores, who kisses Your Mercy’s hand.”

There was a familiar quality in the man’s half chuckle, and Driscoll hastily struck a match. In its light a face grew before him, and a pair of malevolent eyes, one of them crossed and beaming recognition, met his.

“Well, Tibby?” said Driscoll quietly.

“First your pistols, then what you know,” commanded RÉgules. “Here, in between us. Talk as we ride, or––”

Don Tiburcio complied. Such had been his intention.

373“I am no more a loyal Imperialist,” he announced, with a gruesome contortion of the mouth.

“Nor a live deserter for long,” said RÉgules. “Quick, what’s the news at QuerÉtero?”

“Carrai, my news and more will jolt out if I open my mouth. Eh, mi coronel,” he added to Driscoll, “you’ve taught this barbarous gait to the Republic too, I see?”

“Better obey orders,” Driscoll warned him gently.

“But there’s no need of hurry, seÑores. Not now, there isn’t.”

“You mean the Imperialists have whipped Escobedo, that––”

“Not so fast, mi general. If they had, wouldn’t I want you to hurry, for then there’d be a conquering Empire waiting for you?”

“Colonel Driscoll,” said RÉgules, “fall back a step. I’m going to kill this fellow now.”

“As you wish, general. But he’s got something to tell.”

“Then por Dios, why doesn’t he?”

“Yes, Tibby, why don’t you?”

Don Tiburcio cocked a puzzled head toward the American. He had not known such softness of voice in Mendez’s former captain of Lancers. But he saw that Driscoll had drawn his pistol, which accorded so grimly with the mildness of his tone that the scout chuckled in delight and admiration.

“You know that I’ll tell–now,” he said reproachfully. “In a word, there’s been no battle at all, curse him, curse both––”

“No battle! Escobedo kept away then?”

“No, not even that. The Imperialists would not fight, and the Empire has lost its last chance. Curse them both, curse––”

“Well, curse away, but who, what?”

“I curse, seÑores mios,” and the scout’s words grated in 374rage and chagrin, “I curse His Excellency the general-of-division-in-chief of the army of operations, Don Leonardo Marquez. I curse, seÑores, the Reverend SeÑor Abbot, Padre Augustin Fischer––”

“Good, that’s finished. Now tell us why there was no battle.”

“I curse His Ex––”

“You have already, but now––”

Tiburcio flung up his hand in a gesture of assent, and his ugly features relaxed. Though going at a brisk trot, he rolled a cigarette and lighted it. Then he told his story. QuerÉtero? Ha, QuerÉtero was now the Court, the Army, the Empire! Pious townsmen shouted “Viva el SeÑor Emperador!” all day long. The cafÉs were alive with uniforms and oaths and high play. Padres and friars shrived with ardor. There was the theatre. Fashion promenaded under the beautiful Alameda trees, and whispered the latest rumors of the Empress Carlota. Maximilian decorated the brave, and bestowed gold fringed standards. Then came Escobedo and his Legion del Norte, but they kept behind the hills. Bueno, the Empire would go forth and smite them, and the pious townspeople climbed to the housetops to see it done. And yesterday morning the Empire, with banners flying and clarion blasts, did march out and form in glittering battle array.

“And then, hombre?”

“And then the Empire marched back again, seÑores.”

RÉgules and Driscoll were stupefied. What gross idiocy–or treachery–had thrown away the Empire’s one magnificent chance?

Tiburcio sucked in his breath. “I curse––”

“Marquez?” cried RÉgules.

“Si seÑor, Marquez! Marquez cried out against the attack, and His Majesty ordered the troops back into town again.”

375“But Miramon, hombre? Miramon, the best among you, where was he?”

“General Miramon fairly begged to fight, but he has been defeated once, and now Marquez warns the Emperor against Miramon’s ‘imprudence.’ Marquez is chief of staff, and crows over Miramon, who was once his president. He personally ordered Miramon off the field, yet it was Miramon who first made the insolent little whelp into a general.”

“This,” said Driscoll, “does not explain why you desert to us?”

For an instant the old malignant humor gleamed in the baleful crescent. “It’s the fault of the fat padrecito,” he replied. “Your Mercy perhaps does not know about the pretty servant he eloped with from the Bishop of Durango’s to MurguÍa’s hacienda? Well, but trouble started when I saw her, or rather, when she saw me, even me, seÑor, for then she perceived that the padrecito was not a handsome man. Presto, there was another eloping, and the holy Father Fischer felt bad, so very bad that when he got into favor with Maximilian, he had me condemned for certain toll-taking matters he knew of. But I vanished in time, and I’ve been serving under Mendez as a loyal and undiscouraged Imperialist until yesterday. But yesterday the padre recognized me at a review of the troops. Your Mercy figures to himself how long I waited after that? Your Mercy observed how fast I was riding?”

The fellow’s audacity saved him. The news he brought proved correct. Escobedo had not been attacked. Besides, RÉgules perhaps hoped to trap Mendez through the former Imperialist scout, though Driscoll derided the idea and even counseled the worthy deserter’s execution.

Don Tiburcio’s lank jaw dropped. Driscoll’s advice was too heavy a recoil on his own wits, for had he not once saved the Gringo’s life, feeling that one day he might be a beneficiary 376of the Gringo’s singular aversion to shooting people? And now here was the Gringo in quite another of his unexpected humors. But what bothered Don Tiburcio most was the acumen that tempered the American’s mercy. The facts indeed stood as Driscoll casually laid them before General RÉgules. Tibby, for instance, had neglected to call himself a “loyal” Republican. Asked for a description of the new earthworks on the Cerro de las Campanas, he only told how peons and criminals were forced to carry adobes there though exposed to Escobedo’s sharpshooters, which had in it for Tibby the subtle element of a jest. Or asked about the new powder mills, he described how Maximilian slept patriotically wrapped in a native serape, woven with the eagle and colors, or related how the Emperor won the hearts of soldiers and citizens by his princely and ever amiable bearing.

“Now sing us the national hymn,” said Driscoll, “and the betrayal of your former friends will be complete.”

But though Don Tiburcio had deserted for convenience and perhaps meant to be a spy in the dissident camp, yet RÉgules saved him, while Driscoll lifted his shoulders indifferently and at heart was not sorry.

The Celaya road, crossing a flat country, first touches QuerÉtero on its southwestern corner, and from here the two Republican brigades beheld the ancient romantic town in the dawn as they approached. Many beautiful Castilian towers, stately and tapering to needles of stone, rose from among flat roofs and verdure tufts, and pointed upward to a sky as soft and warm as over the Tuscan hills. Other spires were Gothic, and others truncated, but the temples that gave character to the whole were those of Byzantine domes. Lighted by the sun’s level rays of early morning, their mosaic colors glittered as in some bright glare of Algeria, but were relieved by the town’s cooling fringe of green and the palms of many plazas within. It might have been a Moorish city, in Happy Arabia 377called paradise, a city of fountains, and wooded glens, like haunts of mythical fauns. QuerÉtero once boasted a coat of arms, granted by a condescending Spanish monarch, and for loyalty to the hoary order of king and church she in those old days described herself as Very Noble and Royal. Stern cuirassed conquistadores held her as a key to the nation’s heart, as a buckler for the capital, and lately the French did also. And now the Hapsburg had come to a welcome of garlands, and called her his “querida.”

But however excellently QuerÉtero served as a base of military operations, as a besieged place pocketed among hills her aspect altered woefully. She was like an egg clutched in the talons of an eagle. On north and east and south the hills swept perilously near, a low, convenient range, with only a grass plain a few miles wide separating them from the town below. On north and east the heights were already sprinkled with Escobedo’s tents and cannon. They commanded the only two strongholds of the besieged, as well as the town itself, which lay between. One stronghold was the Cerro de las Campanas, a wedge-shaped hill on the northwestern edge of the town, which held nothing but trenches. On the northwestern edge was the other stronghold, the mound of Sangremal, which fell away as a steep bluff to the grassy plain below. From the bluff, across the plain, to the hills opposite, stretched a magnificent aqueduct. On the mound’s commodious summit of tableland there was the Plaza de la Cruz, also the Church de la Cruz, and an old Franciscan hive, called the monastery de la Cruz. Here Maximilian established himself in a friar’s lonely cell. On the north a small river skirted the town, on the south, where nothing intervened between the grassy plain and the wooded Alameda, the besiegers found the most vulnerable flank.

On this side investment began with the arrival of Corona and RÉgules, and soon after, of General Riva Palacio. The 378Republicans numbered fifteen thousand already, and more were coming daily, but as yet there were ragged strands in the noose being woven around the beleaguered place. Curiously enough, the most feverish to see the cordon perfected was none other than Don Tiburcio.

“Marquez will escape! Marquez will fly the net!” he kept bewailing. “Si seÑor, and the padrecito with him, curse them both!”

Two weeks passed, filled with skirmishes and ominous tests of strength. At night fiery parabolas blazed their course against the sky, up from the outer hills, sweeping down on Las Campanas or La Cruz. Imperialist chiefs urged a general attack, but again Marquez foiled their hopes. Then, at two o’clock one morning, there came to pass what Tiburcio had feared. A body of horse stole out upon the plain, and gained the unguarded Sierra road to Mexico. Four thousand cavalry pursued over the hills, but in vain. The fugitives were Marquez and the Fifth Lancers, his escort. He was gone to the capital to raise funds, and to bring back with him, at once, the Imperialist garrison there of five thousand men. Doting Maximilian had even named him lieutenant of the Empire, and Mexico City would shortly have the Leopard for regent. QuerÉtero, moreover, was seriously weakened by the loss of the Fifth Lancers, and there were those who remembered how, when Guadalajara was besieged by Liberals seven years before, Marquez had likewise set out for aid, and had returned–too late.

To his wrathful disgust, Don Tiburcio learned that Father Fischer was also gone with Marquez. The priest had disguised himself in an officer’s cloak, and for the moment none in the town knew of his flight. The fat padre, it appeared, no longer hoped for the luscious bishopric of Durango. His was the rat’s instinct, as regards a sinking ship.

The Leopard and the Rat got away only in time. The 379very next day ten thousand ragged Inditos, largely conscripts, arrived from the Valley of Mexico and filled the gap in the besiegers’ line. Investment was now complete, against a paltry nine thousand within the town.