The Rifle Rangers. Reid Mayne
wound up with an exclamation not proper to be repeated.
“Can’t see why they picked me out. There’s Myers, and Wayne, and Wood, not half my size, and that thin scare-the-crows Allen; but no – the general wants me killed. Die soon enough in this infernal nest of centipedes without being shot in the chaparral! I wish the chaparral was – !” and again the major’s unmentionable words came pouring forth in a volley.
I saw that it was useless to interrupt him until the first burst was over. From his frequent anathemas on the “bushes” and the “chaparral”, I could gather that the service I was called upon to perform lay at some distance from the camp; but beyond this I could learn nothing, until the major had sworn himself into a degree of composure, which after some minutes he accomplished. I then re-stated the object of my visit.
“We’re going into the country for mules,” replied the major. “Mules, indeed! Heaven knows there isn’t a mule within ten miles, unless with a yellow-hided Mexican on his back, and such mules we don’t want. The volunteers – curse them! – have scared everything to the mountains: not a stick of celery nor an onion to be had at any price.”
“How long do you think we may be gone?” I inquired.
“Long? Only a day. If I stay overnight in the chaparral, may a wolf eat me! Oh, no! if the mules don’t turn up soon, somebody else may go fetch ’em – that’s all.”
“I may ration them for one day?” said I.
“Two – two; your fellows’ll be hungry. Roberts, of the Rifles, who’s been out in the country, tells me there isn’t enough forage to feed a cat. So you’d better take two days’ biscuit. I suppose we’ll meet with beef enough on the hoof, though I’d rather have a rump-steak out of the Philadelphia market than all the beef in Mexico. Hang their beef! it’s as tough as tan leather!”
“At four o’clock then, Major, I’ll be with you,” said I, preparing to take my leave.
“Make it a little later, Captain. I get no sleep with these cursed gally-nippers and things; but, stay – how many men have you got?”
“In my company eighty; but my order is to take only fifty.”
“There again! I told you so; want me killed – they want old Bios killed! Fifty men, when a thousand of the leather-skinned devils have been seen not ten miles off! Fifty men! great heavens! fifty men! There’s an escort to take the chaparral with!”
“But they are fifty men worth a hundred, I promise you.”
“Bring all – every son of a gun – bugler and all.”
“But that, Major, would be contrary to the general’s orders.”
“Hang the general’s orders! Obey some generals’ orders in this army, and you would do queer things. Bring them all; take my advice. I tell you, if you don’t, our lives may answer for it. Fifty men!”
I was about to depart when the major stopped me with a loud “Hilloa!”
“Why,” cried he, “I have lost my senses! Your pardon, Captain! This unlucky thing has driven me crazy. They must pick upon me! What will you drink? Here’s some good brandy; sorry I can’t say as much for the water.”
I mixed a glass of brandy and water; the major did the same; and, having pledged each other, we bade “good night”, and separated.
Chapter Nine.
Scouting in the Chaparral
Between the shores of the Mexican Gulf and the “foot-hills” (piedmont) of the great chain of the Andes lies a strip of low lands. In many places this belt is nearly a hundred miles in breadth, but generally less than fifty. It is of a tropical character, termed in the language of the country tierra caliente. It is mostly covered with jungly forests, in which are found the palm, the tree-ferns, the mahogany and india-rubber trees, dyewoods, canes, llianas, and many other gigantic parasites. In the underwood you meet thorny aloes, the “pita” plant, and wild mezcal; various Cactacese, and flora of singular forms, scarcely known to the botanist. There are swamps, dark and dank, overshadowed by the tall cypress, with its pendent streamers of silvery moss (Tillandsia usneoïdes). From these arise the miasma – the mother of the dreaded “vomito.”
This unhealthy region is but thinly inhabited; but here you meet with people of the African race, and nowhere else in Mexico. In the towns – and there are but few – you see the yellow mulatto, and the pretty quadroon with her black waving hair; but in the spare settlements of the country you meet with a strange race – the cross of the negro with the ancient inhabitants of the country – the “zamboes.”
Along the coast and in the black country, behind Vera Cruz, you will find these people living a half-indolent, half-savage life, as small cultivators, cattle-herds, fishermen, or hunters. In riding through the forest you may often chance upon such a picture as the following: —
There is an opening in the woods that presents an aspect of careless cultivation – a mere patch cleared out of the thick jungle – upon which grow yams, the sweet-potato (Convolvulus batata), chilé, melons, and the calabash. On one side of the clearing there is a hut – a sort of shed. A few upright poles forked at their tops; a few others laid horizontally upon them; a thatch of palm leaves to shadow the burning rays of the sun – that is all.
In this shadow there are human beings – men, women, children. They wear rude garments of white cotton cloth; but they are half-naked, and their skins are dark, almost black. Their hair is woolly and frizzled. They are not Indians, they are not negroes, they are “zamboes” – a mixture of both. They are coarse-featured, and coarsely clad. You would find it difficult, at a little distance, to distinguish their sex, did you not know that those who swing in the hammocks and recline indolently upon the palm-mats (petatés) are the men, and those who move about and do the work are the females. One of the former occasionally stimulates the activity of the latter by a stroke of the “cuarto” (mule-whip).
A few rude implements of furniture are in the shed: a “metaté” on which the boiled maize is ground for the “tortilla” cakes; some “ollas” (pots) of red earthenware; dishes of the calabash; a rude hatchet or two; a “macheté”; a banjo made from the gourd-shell; a high-peaked saddle, with bridle and “lazo”; strings of red-pepper pods hanging from the horizontal beams – not much more. A lank dog on the ground in front; a lean “mustang” tied to the tree; a couple of “burros” (donkeys); and perhaps a sorry galled mule in an inclosure adjoining.
The zambo enjoys his dolce far niente while his wife does his work – what work there is, but that is not much. There is an air of neglect that impresses you; an air of spontaneity about the picture – for the yams and the melons, and the chilé-plants, half choked with weeds, seem to grow without culture, and the sun gives warmth, so as to render almost unnecessary the operations of the spindle and the loom.
The forest opens again, and another picture – a prettier one – presents itself. It bears the aspect of a better cultivation, though still impressing you with ideas of indolence and neglect. This picture is the “rancho”, the settlement of the small farmer, or “vaquero” (cattle-herd). Its form is that of an ordinary house, with gables and sloping roof, but its walls are peculiar. They are constructed of gigantic bamboo canes, or straight poles of the Fouquiera splendens. These are laced together by cords of the “pita” aloe; but the interstices between are left open, so as freely to admit the breeze. Coolness, not warmth, is the object of these buildings. The roof is a thatch of palm-leaves, and with far-impending eaves casts off the heavy rain of the tropics. The appearance is striking – more picturesque even than the chalet of Switzerland.
There is but little furniture within. There is no table; there are few chairs, and these of raw hide nailed upon a rude frame. There are bedsteads of bamboo; the universal tortilla-stone; mats of palm-leaf; baskets of the same material; a small altar-like fireplace in the middle of the floor; a bandolin hanging by the wall; a saddle of stamped leather, profusely ornamented with silver nails and plates; a hair bridle, with huge Mameluke bit; an escopette and sword, or