The Missourian Part 59

CHAPTER XII

THE RENDEZVOUS OF THE REPUBLIC

"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 hards.h.i.+ps 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 coa.r.s.e frayed s.h.i.+rts 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 they rode with Driscoll, among the Missourians. And the Missourians sang:

"My name it is Joe Bowers, And I've got a brother Ike; I come from old Missouri, Yes, all the way from Pike."

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 Missouri 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 Republica 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 t.i.tle.

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 Regules 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 Acambaro a second Republican army, under General Corona--"welcomer than a stack of blues," as Boone said--more than doubled their force, and together they hastened on to Queretero.

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 Queretero, 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 Regules. The Republicans, therefore, must be united at once.

The message was no sooner heard than the two weary brigades of Corona and Regules 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. Regules'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, Maria purisima," cried Regules, "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, Senor 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 Regules. "Here, in between us. Talk as we ride, or----"

Don Tiburcio complied. Such had been his intention.

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

"Nor a live deserter for long," said Regules. "Quick, what's the news at Queretero?"

"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, senores. 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 Regules, "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 c.o.c.ked 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, senores mios," and the scout's words grated in rage and chagrin, "I curse His Excellency the general-of-division-in-chief of the army of operations, Don Leonardo Marquez. I curse, senores, the Reverend Senor 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 a.s.sent, and his ugly features relaxed. Though going at a brisk trot, he rolled a cigarette and lighted it. Then he told his story. Queretero? Ha, Queretero was now the Court, the Army, the Empire! Pious townsmen shouted "Viva el Senor Emperador!"

all day long. The cafes were alive with uniforms and oaths and high play. Padres and friars shrived with ardor. There was the theatre.

Fas.h.i.+on 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, senores."

Regules and Driscoll were stupefied. What gross idiocy--or treachery--had thrown away the Empire's one magnificent chance?