



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Guerilla Chief
And other Tales
By Mayne Reid
Published by George Routledge and Sons Ltd. London.
This edition dated 1884.

The Guerilla Chief, by Mayne Reid.

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THE GUERILLA CHIEF, BY MAYNE REID.

Story 1, Chapter I.

CERRO GORDO.

"_Agua! por amor Dios, agua--aguita_!"  (Water! for the love of God, a
little water!)

I heard these words, as I lay in my tent, on the field of Cerro Gordo.

It was the night after the battle bearing this name--fought between the
American and Mexican armies in the month of April, 1847.

The routed regiments of Santa Anna--saving some four thousand men
captured upon the ground--had sought safety in flight, the greater body
taking the main road to Jalapa, pursued by our victorious troops; while
a large number, having sprawled down the almost perpendicular cliff that
overhangs the "Rio del Plan" escaped, unperceived and unpursued, into
the wild chapparals that cover the _piedmont_ of Perote.

Among these last was the _lame_ tyrant himself, or rather should I say,
_at their head leading the retreat_.  This has always been his favourite
position at the close of a battle that has gone against him; and a score
of such defeats can be recorded.

I could have captured him on that day but for the cowardice of a colonel
who had command over me and mine.  I alone, of all the American army,
saw Santa Anna making his escape from the field, and in such a direction
that I could without difficulty have intercepted his retreat.  With the
strength of a corporal's guard, I could have taken both him and his
glittering staff; but even this number of men was denied me, and _nolens
volens_ was I constrained to forego the pleasure of taking prisoner this
truculent tyrant, and hanging him to the nearest tree, which, as God is
my judge, I should most certainly have done.  Through the imbecility of
my superior officer, I lost the chance of a triumph calculated to have
given me considerable fame; while Mexico missed finding an avenger.

Strictly speaking, I was not _in_ the engagement of Cerro Gordo.  My
orders on that day--or rather those of the spruce colonel who commanded
me--were to guard a battery of mountain howitzers, that had been dragged
to the top of the cliff overlooking El plan--not that already mentioned
as the field of battle, and which was occupied by the enemy, but the
equally precipitous height on the opposite side of the river.

From early daylight until the Mexicans gave way, we kept firing at them
across the stupendous chasm that lay between us, doing them no great
damage, unless they were frightened by the whizz of an occasional
rocket, which our artillerist, Ripley--now a second-rate Secesh
general--succeeded in sending into their midst.

As to ourselves and the battery, there was no more danger of either
being assaulted by the enemy than there was of our being whisked over
the cliff by the tail of a comet.  There was not a Mexican soldier on
our side of the _barranca_; and as to any of them crossing over to us,
they could only have performed the feat in a balloon, or by making a
circuitous march of nearly a dozen miles.

For all this security, our stick-to-the-text colonel held close to the
little battery of howitzers; and would not have moved ten paces from it
to have accomplished the capture of the whole Mexican army.

Perfectly satisfied, from the "lights with which we had been furnished,"
that there was no danger to our battery, and chafing at the ill-luck
that had placed me so far away from the ground where laurels were
growing, and where others were in the act of reaping them, I lost all
interest in Ripley and his popguns; and straying along the summit of the
cliff, I sat me down upon its edge.

A yucca stood stiffly out from the brow of the precipice.  It was the
tree-yucca, and a huge bole of bayonet-shaped leaves crowning its
corrugated trunk shaded a spot of grass-covered turf, on the very edge
of the escarpment.

Had I not scaled the Andes, I might have hesitated to trust myself under
the shadow of that tree.  But a cliff, however sheer and stupendous,
could no longer cause a whirl in my brain; and to escape from the rays
of a tropical sun, at that moment in mid-heaven, I crept forward, caught
hold of the stem of the yucca, lowered my extremities, all booted and
spurred as they were, over the angle of the porphrytic rock, took a
Havana out of my case, drew a fusee across the steel-filings, and,
hanging ignited the cigar, I commenced watching the deadly strife then
raging in full fury on the opposite side of the ravine.

The prudent _nawab_, who preferred looking at a tiger-hunt out of a
two-storey window, or the spectator of a bull-fight in the upper tier of
a "plaza de toros," could not have been safer than I, since, without
running the slightest risk, I had a "bird's-eye view" of the battle.

I could see the steady advance of Worth's division of regulars,
supported by the fiery squadrons of Harney's Horse; the brigade of
Twiggs--that hoary-headed sexagenarian _bavard_, since distinguished as
the "traitor of Texas;" the close-lined and magnificently-mounted troop
of dragoons with horses of light grey, led by Phil Kearney--Kearney, the
accomplished gentleman--the best cavalry officer America ever produced;
the dashing, daring Phil Kearney, who, under my own eyes, lost his right
arm in the _garita_ of San Antonio de Abad; the lamented Phil.  Kearney,
since become a victim to the accursed Secesh rebellion, or rather to the
mismanagement of that wooden-headed pretender whose stolid "strategy"
ignorance still continues to mistake for genius--McClellan.

I saw them, one and all, regulars and volunteers, horse and foot, move
at the "forward."  I saw them advance towards the hill "El Telegrafo."
I saw them mending their pace to the double-quick, and break into a run
at the "charge!"

I could hear the charging signal and the cheer that succeeded it.  I
could see the base of the hill suddenly empurpled with smoke--a belt of
conglomerate puffs rapidly merging into one another.  I could perceive
the opposing puffs upon the summit, growing thinner and thinner, as the
blue mantle below _caped_ gradually up towards the shoulder of the
"cerro."

Then the smoke upon the summit became dissolved into translucent vapour;
the tricoloured Mexican flag flickered for a moment longer through its
film, until, as if by some invisible hand, it was dragged down the
staff; while at the same instant the banner of the stars and stripes
swept out upon the breeze, announcing the termination of the battle of
Cerro Gordo.

Story 1, Chapter II.

THE ESCAPE OF EL COJO.

Despite the chagrin I felt at being literally _hors de combat_, I could
not at this moment avoid surrendering myself to a feeling of exultation.

Both my chagrin and exultation were suddenly checked.  A spectacle was
before my eyes that inspired me with a vivid hope--a dream of glory.

Like a string of white ants descending the side of one of their steepest
"hills," I perceived a long line moving down the face of the opposite
cliff.  In the distance--a mile or more--they looked no larger than
_termites_.  Like them, too, they were of whitish colour.  For all that,
I knew they were men--soldiers in the cheap cotton uniforms of the
Mexican infantry.

Without any strain upon my powers of ratiocination, I divined that they
were fugitives from the field above, who, in their panic, had retreated
over the precipice--anywhere that promised to separate them from their
victorious foemen.

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, commenced making my way towards the spot
where I might expect to find the utterer of the earnest appeal.

Story 1, Chapter III.

THE MENACE OF A MONSTER.

The tent I was leaving stood in the centre of a circumscribed clearing.
Ten paces from its front commenced the _chapparal_--a thicket of thorny
shrubs, consisting of acacia, cactus, the agave, yuccas, and copaiva
trees, mingled and linked together by lianas and vines of smilax,
sarsaparilla, jalap, and the climbing bromelias.  There was no path save
that made by wild animals--the timid Mexican mazame and its pursuer, the
cunning coyote.

One of these paths I followed.

Its windings soon led me astray.  Though the moon was shining in a
cloudless sky, I was soon in such a maze that I could neither tell the
direction of the tent I had left behind, nor that of the sufferer I had
sallied out in search of.

In sight there was no object to guide me.  I paused in my steps, and
listened for a sound.

For some seconds there was a profound silence, unbroken even by the
groans of the wounded, some of whose voices were, perhaps, now silent in
death.  The wolves, too, had suspended their hideous howlings, as though
their quest for prey had ended, and they were busily banqueting on the
dead.

The stillness produced a painful effect, even more than the melancholy
sounds that had preceded it I almost longed for their renewal.

A short while only did this irksome silence continue.  It was terminated
by the voice I had before heard, this time in the utterance of a
different speech.

"_Soy moriendo!  Lola--Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo_!"  (I
am dying, Dolores--dear Dolores! never more shall I see you in this
world!)

"_Nunca mas en este mundo_!" came the words rapidly re-pronounced, but
in a voice of such different intonation as to preclude the possibility
of mistaking it either for an echo or repetition by the same speaker.

"No, never!" continued the second voice, in the same tone, and in a
similar _patois_.  "Never again shall you look upon Lola--you, Calros
Vergara, who have kept me from becoming her husband; who have poisoned
her mind against me--"

"Ah! it is you, Rayas!  What has brought you hither?  Is it to torture a
dying man?"

"_Carajo_!  I didn't come to do anything of the kind.  I came to assure
myself that you _were_ dying--that's all.  Vicente Vilagos, who has
escaped from this ugly affair, has just told me you'd got a bit of lead
through your body.  I've sought you here to make sure that your wound
was fatal--as he said it was."

"_Santissima_!  O Ramon Rayas! that is your errand?"

"You mistake--I have another: else I shouldn't have risked falling into
the hands of those damnable _Americanos_, who might take a fancy to send
one of their infernal bullets through my own carcass."

"What other errand?  What want you with me?  I am sore wounded--I
believe I am dying."

"First, as I've told you--to make sure that you _are_ dying; and
secondly, if that be the case, to learn before you _do_ die, what you
have done with Lola."

"Never.  Dead or living, you shall not know from me.  Go, go! _por amor
Dios_! do not torment a poor wretch in his last moments."

"Bah!  Calros Vergara, listen to reason.  Remember, we were boys
together--scourged in the same school.  Your time's up; you can't
protect Lola any more.  Why hinder me--I who love her as my own life?
I'm not so bad as people say, though I am accused of an inclination for
the _road_.  That's the fault of the bad government we've got.  Come!
don't leave the world like a fool; and Lola without a protector.  Tell
me where you've hidden her--tell me that, and the n--"

"No! no!  Leave me, Rayas! leave me!  If I am to die, let me die in
peace."

"You won't tell me?"

"No--no--"

"Never mind, then; I'll find out in time, and no thanks to you.  So, go
to the devil, and carry your secret along with you.  If Lola be anywhere
within the four corners of Mexico, I'll track her up.  She don't escape
from Rayas the _salteadur_!"

I could hear a rustling among the hushes: as if the last speaker, having
delivered his _ultimatum_, was taking his departure from the spot.

Suddenly the sound ceased; and the voice once more echoed in my ear--

"Carrambo!" exclaimed the man now known to me as Ramon Rayas, "I was
going away without having accomplished the best half of my errand!
Didn't I come to make certain that your wound was mortal?  Let's see if
that _picaro_ Vilagos has been telling me the truth.  Through what part
of the body are you perforated?"

There was no reply; but from certain indications I could tell that the
_salteador_ had approached the prostrate man, and was stooping down to
examine his wounds.

I made a movement forward in the direction in which I had heard the
strange dialogue; but checked myself on again hearing the voice of
Rayas.

"_Carajo_!" ejaculated he, in a tone that betokened some discovery, at
the same time one causing disappointment.  "That wound of yours is not
mortal--not a bit of it!  You may recover from it, if--"

"You think I have a chance to recover?" eagerly interrogated the wounded
man--willing to clutch at hope, even when offered by an enemy.

"_Think_ you have a chance to recover?  I'm _sure_ of it.  The bullet
has passed through your thigh--what of that?  It's only a flesh wound.
The great artery is not touched.  That I'm sure about, or you'd have
bled to death long ago.  The bone is not broken: else you could no more
lift your foot in that fashion, than you could kick yonder _cofre_ from
the top of Perote.  _Carrambo_! you'd be sure to get over it, if--"

There was an interval of silence, as though the speaker hesitated to
pronounce the condition implied by that "if."  The peculiar emphasis,
placed on the monosyllabic word, told me that he was making pause for a
purpose.

"If what, Capitan Rayas?"

The interrogatory came from the wounded man, in a tone trembling between
hope and doubt.

"If," answered the other, and with emphatic pronunciation,--"_if you
tell me where you have hidden Dolores_."

There was a groan; and then in a quivering voice came the rejoinder.

"How could that affect my recovery?  If I am to die, it could not save
me.  If it be my fate to survive this sad day--"

"It is _not_," interrupted the _salteador_, in a firm, loud voice.  "No!
This day you must die--this hour--this moment, unless you reveal to me
that secret you have so carefully kept.  Where is Dolores?"

"Never!  Rather shall I die than that she should fall into the power of
such a remorseless villain.  After that threat, O God!--"

"Die, then! and go to the God you are calling upon.  Die, Calros
Vergara--!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming
myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing
nearer to the speakers.  Just as the "Die, then!" reached my ears, I
caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace--as well
as of him to whom it was addressed.

Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had
entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending
over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his
grasp.

At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush
forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived
I should be too late.

Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword at my feet,
and drawing my revolver