CHAPTER IX.
THE JAROCHO’S PRISONER.
An old, gray-haired man, unarmed and upon foot, was slowly and wearily walking along a narrow, faintly-defined pathway that wound, leading up and around a precipitous hill that might almost be called a mountain. He was dressed in a travel-stained suit of frayed and torn clothes, that gave him the appearance of one of the beggars that may be met with in the province described. His tall and once powerful frame was bowed somewhat, and he leaned heavily upon his stout staff. His hands and face were begrimed with dust, and this, added to a stiff, bristling beard of several days’ growth, helped to complete the picture.
“Hold, vagabundo! what are you doing here?” challenged the voice of a concealed man, and the wayfarer’s ears were saluted by a significant click, so suggestive of an ounce of lead, as he suddenly paused and exclaimed:
“Do not fire, senor stranger; I am a friend.”
“Are there more of you?”
“I am alone, and, as you see, unarmed,” replied the traveler.
“Good. But who are you, and what do you seek here?” the challenger added, as he stepped from his covert among the bushes, and leaped lightly down into the pathway.
He was the beau ideal of a hardy mountaineer, tall, handsome, and of a fine, stalwart form. His dress was that of a Jarocho (as all the peasants who reside near the sea-coast and the country around Vera Cruz are termed), and wore in all its purity the peculiar costume of this class of men.
A hat of Jipajopa straw, with the broad brim turned up behind; a fine linen shirt, with a band of fine embroidery half hidden between frills of cambric, worn without any vest or coat above it; and a pair of purple cotton-velvet calzeneros, open at the knee, and falling in two points to the middle of his calf. A scarf of scarlet China crape was knotted around his waist, in which hung a straight sword, or cortente, without sheath or guard, the sharp and glittering blade of which sparkled in the bright sunshine. On his feet were half-boots of stamped Cardovan leather, heavily spiked with steel. A very valuable, if only for its gold and silver mountings, carabine was dropped into the hollow of his left arm, while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand played with the hammer and trigger, as he curiously scanned the traveler’s face and form.
“The senor can see that I am a poor, homeless traveler who has been forced to beg his way from Tabasco, on foot, old as I am. And I fear me my long journey has been for naught. I have only one hope left me now, and I seek for Don Serapio Barana, or if he is dead, any of his old band.”
“Ha! what may be your business with him, or I should say them?” exclaimed the Jarocho, in apparent surprise.
“Do you know aught of him? The blessed Virgin grant that you may say yes!” cried the traveler, eagerly. “Can you direct me to him?”
“Perhaps. But answer my question first. What is it you wish to know?”
“Listen, then; a few words will tell it. To Don Barana’s band of—of guerilleros there belonged a man called Tomas Ventura, and whom I have lost track of for nearly twenty years. I wish to know whether he yet lives, or if he is dead, to be shown his grave,” hurriedly uttered the traveler.
“And for what—why should you look for him, who may have died years since?”
“Senor, he was my brother!”
“Your brother?” slowly said the Jarocho, then added, after a slight pause: “Well, I will trust you, as I think you are honest. I belonged to the band at that time, and think I remember the man. But there are older men among us, who may be able to tell you about him, for I was but a boy then. However, do not hope for too good tidings, for I fear me he is dead long since.”
As he finished, he drew an ivory whistle from his bosom, and blew a shrill, quavering peal that echoed through the hills. In a few moments, two men, attired much as their comrade, appeared upon the hillside, and, after a short explanation, one of them took the place of sentinel, while the other two led the way over a rough path up the hillside, followed by the traveler. Turning a sharp spur in the hill, they passed the foot of an almost perpendicular cliff, whose face was dotted with shrubbery and parasitic plants.
The Jarochos led the way by a series of rude steps, partly the work of nature, partly cut by the hand of man, up the side of the ascent. It was a precarious footing, but their eyes were true, and then, when perhaps three hundred feet from the base, a long line of shrubbery was reached, bordering a ledge of some ten paces in width, that led into a spacious cavern, hollowed out of the rock.
Within this natural fort there gleamed several fires, and further from the entrance burned several rude lamps, either stuck into a crevice or hanging from the roof. Forms of men, women and children were walking around the cavern, or lying by the fires in every attitude of indolent ease, smoking, sleeping, or playing cards. The flickering gleam of the fires but imperfectly lighting up the recesses, playing over the picturesque forms, rendered it a weird, fantastic scene.
A bustle followed the appearance of the stranger, and the form of a monk, as his robe proclaimed him, advanced from a rude couch in one corner, and, after a profound obeisance, the Jarocho introduced the subject of the visit.
“And you wish to see this Don Serapio Barana?”
“If possible, holy father, yes,” replied the stranger, in a respectfully low voice.
“You say it is to gain news of your brother; are you sure that you have no other object?” persisted the padre, keenly eyeing the traveler.
“No, your reverence, I have no other object; and I pray you, if he is yet alive, to direct me to him.”
“It can not be. He is dead!”
“Dead? Alas, then, my poor brother, art thou dead also?” murmured the stranger, in a half-choked voice. “But may I not inquire among these cavalleros, father? They may be able to give me some clue; but if not, then, if you will allow me, I will join your band. You smile, but I am worn now by sickness and fatigue. In a week’s time I will engage to stand up before your best man, with whatever weapon he may choose, and, my life upon it, I will not be the first to cry hold!” proudly said the traveler, drawing himself up to his full hight, and glancing half defiantly around the crowd gathered near the entrance of the cavern.
“And you have been—”
“A soldier, father, from my fifteenth year until I started in search of my brother; and if he is no more, I care not what becomes of me. He was the last of my race, and there is no one to care or think of me now. But may I question the men?”
“Yes. But if what you tell me is true about your accomplishments, I trust you will hear nothing against your staying with us. If you lose one brother, you will find five score as true and good,” replied the padre, speaking in a clear, full voice, and, as the Jarochos cast a quick, significant glance at each other, he saw that he was understood.
“Thanks, holy father,” replied the stranger, as he bowed over the hand that was extended him, and noticing the effect of the last words. “If it were not a sin for me to speak so, I would say amen to your wish. But first my brother, then myself,” and he was about to turn away, when the priest spoke:
“Stay, my friend; as you are about to join our band—”
“Pardon, father; if I do not find my brother Tomas.”
“Of course. But I don’t believe you will learn any thing,” and he smiled in a significant manner. “It has been so long since, you know.”
“True, I can but hope for the best.”
“But your name?” added the padre.
“Is Garote Ventura.”
“Good. When you have questioned the men, come to me, and I will fit you out as a worthy Jarocho should be,” added the padre.
“If I do not learn of my brother,” answered Garote, with a bow.
“True; if,” smiled the monk, as he turned away to his couch, while the other pursued his inquiries regarding the lost one with a praiseworthy industry.
He did hear of Tomas Ventura, and if a tithe was true that was told him, then his brother must have been a wonderful man, surely. Every Jarocho appeared to recollect him, told tragic anecdotes in which he was the hero, but all coincided that he was dead; the only point, however, upon which they were agreed.
He was killed by a knife, gun, a fall from his horse, drowned, hung, by falling over the cliff, drank himself to death; and one Jarocho even affirmed that upon one night he saw the devil place the poor fellow astride of his tail, bidding him hold fast around his body, and then fly through the air, riding upon a streak of chain lightning. Oh, yes, he was dead of a surety, and so at length Garote Ventura returned to the padre, and announced his intention of becoming one of his band of worthies, which resolve was warmly commended, and the holy father ordered a general carousal in honor of the new recruit.
As a preliminary, the new member was sent with a score of others to Manterial, a little hamlet some few miles distant, with orders to procure all the wine, brandy, and liquor that they could carry, and if the owners demanded pay, to settle the score with a cortante or cuchillo, by which proceeding he considered the novice would be perfectly initiated into the mysteries of their craft.
Although nothing more serious was shed than some liquor, the expedition was a success, and when they returned the orgies were begun. As there was little fear of a surprise, the sentinels were called in to participate, for no stranger could scale the precipice, unless in broad daylight, without giving the alarm, and the rear entrance was securely closed. All joined in the revelry, even the women and padre Gayferos, who proved himself a veteran in the art of wine-bibbing; excelling even among the many experts that were there.
But among them all, there was not one more uproarious, or who filled his cup oftener, than Garote Ventura. As padre Gayferos trilled out the last words of a love song, he suddenly started and glanced around the group. Then pointing to a low, squat-built man, he roared out in a voice that was not entirely free from hiccoughs.
“Andrez, thou drunken rascal, come hither!”
“Drunken, by the Virgin! ’Tis pleasure to hear the kettle call the pot black,” muttered the fellow, as he arose to his feet, and using his arms as balancing poles, staggered toward the monk.
“Eh! what’s that you say?” demanded the monk, a little sharply, as his ear caught the words, although he did not fully comprehend them.
“I only wish the blessed Virgin would remove this killing pain in my back, father,” stammered the Jarocho. “See; I can not stand upright, and it twinges so that I nearly fall down from pain.”
“Abjure the cup, my son, and it will leave you. Oh, if you could only see yourself now, as I see you, you would feel how disgraceful is drunkenness. Andrez—Andrez, take pattern after me, and you will be a better man,” reprovingly quoth the padre, shaking his head, and looking as solemn as an owl.
“I will, holy father, I will. If I ever get less sober than you are now, may the devil carry me off, as he did old Ventura,” said the fellow, assaying a facetious wink, but which only had the effect of further distorting his naturally ugly visage. “But your will, father, your will?”
“Yes, my thoughts wandered. I was reflecting upon the sinfulness of poor human nature,” and as he murmured, he poured a pint of wine down the cavity that represented his mouth. “You know where the prisoner is, good Andrez? Yes. Well, my heart is softened at the sight of our innocent pleasures, and I wish you to take him this bottle of wine, to drink our healths in. Poor devil, ’tis a long time since he tasted as good. Do you hear?”
“Yes, your excellency; but don’t you think—hadn’t I, that is—”
“Carrai, bobo! what do you mean?”
“You see if the—the pain in my back, your excellency, should overcome me, I might fall and break the bottle; which would be a pity, you know,” stammered Andrez, swaying to and fro.
“Thou speakest well, Andrez, my son. Here, take this; and now go,” returned the priest, as he handed the outlaw a huge leathern bottle.
This was not exactly what Andrez meant, but he knew too well the fierce temper of padre Gayferos when once he was aroused, and dared not hesitate longer. But before he had taken a dozen steps he fell to the ground, rolling over and over as he assayed to arise. The new member of the Jarocho band noted this, and he staggered over to the prostrate fellow, and by dint of much pulling and tugging, managed to raise him erect once more; and then he muttered, in a low tone:
“Come, compadre, I will go with you. See; lean on me and show me the way to turn. So. We will do it finely,” as under Andrez’ guidance he turned to the left, after taking down one of the rude lamps, to light their way along the rough, uneven passage.
When once out of sight of the revelers, Andrez whispered:
“Por Bacchus, ’nor Garote, the padre is cruel in sending us here, away from the wine. Suppose we drink together? The prisoner does not need this wine as much as we. Besides, it is a shame for us gentlemen to wait upon him;” he held up the bottle before him, shaking it and listening to the musical rattle of its contents.
“’Tis true, Andrez. But who is this prisoner?” eagerly asked Ventura.
“Ho, ho! that is a secret, that is known only to the holy father and me. Why, he would burn me alive if I so much as whispered that our old capitan, Don Serapo Barana, was his prisoner. No, no, ’nor Ventura, that is a secret—a secret, do you hear? And although you may be a true man, I won’t share it with you,” rambled Andrez, with a drunken leer.
“True, I was wrong, as you say,” suppressing the exultant smile that shot over his features. “But come, we will go to the cell, and then, after we have drank the wine, will throw the bottle inside, so the padre will find it there to-morrow, and then he will not suspect us.”
“Good! that is it. Come, your arm. That cursed pain is in my legs now. The rheumatism in my knee joints, you know.”
In a few minutes more the men were at the end of the passage, and holding up the lamp, Ventura saw that a massive wooden door, thickly studded with iron nails, and secured by a huge lock and two bolts, had been set into the solid rock. It was a good piece of work, and appeared strong enough to resist any thing short of artillery.
“Here we are at last, and, thank the Virgin, that pain has left me,” muttered Andrez, as he dropped to the floor, and began to remove the stopper of the flask. “Come, friend, let us drink and be merry.”
“Stop, ’nor Andrez; how do you open the door?” asked Garote.
“With the key, of course,” and he cut short his speech by introducing the mouth of the flask into his own, while the wine gurgled merrily down his throat.
“But where is it? If you have forgotten it, we must find it, or else the padre will find us out, after all,” added his comrade, a little anxiously.
“Here, see; I carry it in my bosom,” said Andrez, as he pulled it forth, attached to a cord that hung around his neck.
“Is it the right one, do you think?” and as he spoke Garote adroitly cut the string, and placing the key in the lock, turned the bolt with some effort.
“Hold, hold, ’nor Garote! I must let no one touch that but myself. Hand it here, or, by the blessed Virgin, I will blow your brains out!” shouted Andrez, as he grasped the pistol at his belt.
“There—see, here it is. And now let us drink. Hold, will you not leave me a drop?” as the now satisfied Jarocho again elevated the flask, and at the same time lowered the liquor.
“Ah, that is delicious!” murmured the drunkard, as he relinquished the bottle and wiped his mouth upon his shirt sleeve. “I wish that the curs—holy Mother, pardon me, I mean blessed padre Gayferos would send us upon this mission every night! Don’t you conpairano?”
“That I do! I would not have missed this chance for a thousand pesos,” warmly returned the new member, as he handed the bottle to Andrez.
“If he send the wine, yes; if not, no.”
This time Ventura did not reprove his comrade for his gluttony, but allowed him to drink as freely and often as he pleased. After a few attempts, ending by missing his mouth, and pouring the remainder of the liquor down the outside of his throat, Andrez dropped the flask, and laying his head upon it for a pillow, closed his eyes. When the loud music that streamed from his nostrils told that he slept the heavy sleep of the drunkard, Ventura picked up the light, and with a steadiness that would have astonished his comrade, had he seen the movement, opened the door and entered the little cell.
Holding the lamp above his head, so as to cast its light around him, Garote soon perceived the form of a man crouching in one corner of the room, his eyes glaring wildly at the intruder, as if in mortal dread.
“Santissima Virgin! can this be he, once so proud and handsome!” murmured Ventura, as he scanned the wretched-looking object before him.
The prisoner started in wonder, partly at the face of a stranger, but more from hearing the voice of kindness and commiseration, when he expected curses and revilings, perhaps blows.
“Who are you?” he faltered, as he shielded his eyes from the glare of the lamp.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” returned Ventura.