Chapter Thirteen. The Exiles Returned
Of the dramatis personae of our tale, already known to our reader, Carlos Santander, Florence Kearney, and Cris Rock were not the only ones who had shifted residence from the City of New Orleans to that of Mexico. Within the months intervening two others had done the same – these Don Ignacio Valverde and his daughter. The banished exile had not only returned to his native land, but his property had been restored to him, and himself reinstated in the favour of the Dictator.
More still, he had now higher rank than ever before; since he had been appointed a Minister of State.
For the first upward step on this progressive ladder of prosperity Don Ignacio owed all to Carlos Santander. The handsome aide-de-camp, having the ear of his chief, found little difficulty in getting the ban removed, with leave given the refugee – criminal only in a political sense – to come back to his country.
The motive will easily be guessed. Nothing of either friendship or humanity actuated Santander. Alone the passion of love; which had to do not with Don Ignacio – but his daughter. In New Orleans he himself dared no longer live, and so could no more see Luisa Valverde there. Purely personal then; a selfish love, such as he could feel, was the motive for his intercession with the political chief of Mexico to pardon the political criminal. But if he had been the means of restoring Don Ignacio to his country, that was all. True, there was the restitution of the exile’s estates, but this followed as a consequence on reinstatement in his political rights. The after honours and emoluments – with the appointment to a seat in the Cabinet – came from the Chief of the State, Santa Anna himself. And his motive for thus favouring a man who had lately, and for long, been his political foe was precisely the same as that which actuated Carlos Santander. The Dictator of Mexico, as famed for his gallantries in love as his gallantry in war – and indeed somewhat more – had looked upon Luisa Valverde, and “saw that she was fair.”
For Don Ignacio himself, as the recipient of these favours, much may be said in extenuation. Banishment from one’s native land, with loss of property, and separation from friends as from best society; condemned to live in another land, where all these advantages are unattainable, amidst a companionship uncongenial; add to this the necessity of work, whether mental or physical toil, to support life – the res augustae domi; sum up all these, and you have the history of Don Ignacio Valverde during his residence in New Orleans. He bore all patiently and bravely, as man could and should. For all he was willing – and it cannot be wondered at that he was – when the day came, and a letter reached him bearing the State seal of the Mexican Republic – for its insignia were yet unchanged – to say that he had received pardon, and could return home.
He knew the man who had procured it for him – Carlos Santander – and had reason to suspect something of the motive. But the mouth of a gift horse must not be too narrowly examined; and Santander, ever since that night when he behaved so rudely in Don Ignacio’s house, had been chary in showing his face. In point of fact, he had made but one more visit to the Callé de Casa Calvo here, presenting himself several days after the duel with a patch of court plaister on his cheek, and his arm in a sling. An invalid, interesting from the cause which made him an invalid, he gave his own account of it, knowing there was but little danger of its being contradicted; Duperon’s temper, he understood, with that of the French doctor, securing silence. The others were all G.T.T. (gone to Texas), the hack-drivers, as he had taken pains to assure himself. No fear, therefore, of what he alleged getting denial or being called in question.
It was to the effect that he had fought Florence Kearney, and given more and worse wounds than he himself had received – enough of them, and sufficiently dangerous, to make it likely that his adversary would not long survive.
He did not say this to Luisa Valverde – only to her father. When she heard it second hand, it came nigh killing her. But then the informant had gone away – perhaps luckily for himself – and could not further be questioned. When met again in Mexico, months after, he told the same tale. He had no doubt, however, that his duelling adversary, so terribly gashed as to be in danger of dying, still lived. For an American paper which gave an account of the battle of Mier, had spoken of Captain Kearney in eulogistic terms, while not giving his name in the death list; this Santander had read. The presumption, therefore, was of Kearney being among the survivors.
Thus stood things in the city of Mexico at the time the Mier prisoners entered it, as relates to the persons who have so far found place in our story – Carlos Santander, a colonel on the staff of the Dictator; Don Ignacio Valverde, a Minister of State; his daughter, a reigning belle of society, with no aspirations therefor, but solely on account of her beauty; Florence Kearney, late Captain of the Texan filibusters, with Cris Rock, guide, scout, and general skirmisher of the same – these last shut up in a loathsome prison, one linked leg to leg with a robber, the other sharing the chain of a murderer, alike crooked in soul as in body!
That for the Texan prisoners there was yet greater degradation in store – one of them, Kearney, was made aware the moment after the gaol-governor had so unceremoniously shut the door of their cell. The teaching of Don Ignacio in New Orleans had not been thrown away upon him; and this, with the practice since accruing through conversation with the soldiers of their escort, had made him almost a master of the Spanish tongue.
Carlos Santander either did not think of this, or supposed the cloister door too thick to permit of speech in the ordinary tone passing through it. It did, notwithstanding; what he said outside to the governor reaching the Irishman’s ear, and giving him a yet closer clue to that hitherto enigma – the why he and Cris Rock had been cast into a common gaol, among the veriest and vilest of malefactors.
The words of Santander were —
“As you see, Señor Don Pedro, the two Tejanos are old acquaintances of mine. I met them not in Texas, but the United States – New Orleans – where we had certain relations; I need not particularise you. Only to say that both the gentlemen left me very much in their debt; and I now wish, above all things, to wipe out the score. I hope I may count upon you to help me!”
There could be no mistaking what he meant. Anything but a repayal of friendly services, in the way of gratitude; instead, an appeal to the gaol-governor to assist him in some scheme of vengeance. So the latter understood it, as evinced by his rejoinder —
“Of course you can, Señor Colonel. Only say what you wish done. Your commands are sufficient authority for me.”
“Well,” said Santander, after an interval apparently spent in considering, “as a first step, I wish you to give these gentlemen an airing in the street; not alone the Tejanos, but all four.”
“Caspita!” exclaimed the governor, with a look of feigned surprise. “They ought to be thankful for that.”
“They won’t, however. Not likely; seeing their company, and the occupation I want them put at.”
“Which is?”
“A little job in the zancas!”
“In which street?”
“The Callé de Plateros. I observe that its stones are up.”
“And when?”
“To-morrow – at midday. Have them there before noon, and let them be kept until night, or, at all events, till the procession has passed. Do you quite understand me?”
“I think I do, Señor Colonel. About their jewellery– is that to be on?”
“Every link of it. I want them to be coupled, just as they are now – dwarf to giant, and the two grand gentlemen together.”
“Bueno! It shall be done.”
So closed the curious dialogue, or, if continued, what came after it did not reach the ears of Florence Kearney; they who conversed having sauntered off beyond his hearing. When he had translated what he heard to Cris Rock, the latter, like himself, was uncertain as to what it meant. Not so either of their prison companions, who had likewise listened to the conversation outside – both better comprehending it.
“Bueno, indeed!” cried the dwarf, echoing the gaol-governor’s exclamation. “It shall be done. Which means that before this time to-morrow, we’ll all four of us be up to our middle in mud. Won’t that be nice? Ha! ha! ha!”
And the imp laughed, as though, instead of something repulsive, he expected a pleasure of the most enjoyable kind.