The Rifle Rangers. Reid Mayne
are the movables of a “rancho” in the tierra caliente.
You may see the ranchero by the door, or attending to his small, wiry, and spirited horse, outside. The man himself is either of Spanish blood or a “mestizo” (half-breed). He is rarely a pure Indian, who is most commonly a peon or labourer, and who can hardly be termed a “ranchero” in its proper sense.
The ranchero is picturesque – his costume exceedingly so. His complexion is swarthy, his hair is black, and his teeth are ivory white. He is often moustached, but rarely takes the trouble to trim or keep these ornaments in order. His whisker is seldom bushy or luxuriant. His trousers (calzoneros) are of green or dark velvet, open down the outside seams, and at the bottoms overlaid with stamped black leather, to defend the ankles of the wearer against the thorny chaparral. A row of bell buttons, often silver, close the open seams when the weather is cold. There are wide drawers (calzoncillos) of fine white cotton underneath; and these puff out through the seams, forming a tasty contrast with the dark velvet. A silken sash, generally of scarlet colour, encircles the waist; and its fringed ends hang over the hips. The hunting-knife is stuck under it. There is a short jacket of velveteen, tastefully embroidered and buttoned; a white cambric shirt, elaborately worked and plaited; and over all a heavy, broad-brimmed hat (sombrero), with silver or gold band, and tags of the same material sticking out from the sides. He wears boots of red leather, and huge spurs with bell rowels; and he is never seen without the “seraph”. The last is his bed, his blanket, his cloak, and his umbrella.
His wife may be seen moving about the rancho, or upon her knees before the metaté kneading tortillas, and besmearing them with chilé Colorado (red capsicum). She wears a petticoat or skirt of a naming bright colour, very short, showing her well-turned but stockingless ankles, with her small slippered feet. Her arms, neck, and part of her bosom are nude, but half concealed by the bluish-grey scarf (rebozo) that hangs loosely over her head.
The ranchero leads a free, easy life, burthened with few cares. He is the finest rider in the world, following his cattle on horseback, and never makes even the shortest journey on foot. He plays upon the bandolin, sings an Andalusian ditty, and is fond of chingarito (mezcal whisky) and the “fandango.”
Such is the ranchero of the tierra caliente around Vera Cruz, and such is he in all other parts of Mexico, from its northern limits to the Isthmus.
But in the tierra caliente you may also see the rich planter of cotton, or sugar-cane, or cocoa (cacao), or the vanilla bean. His home is the “hacienda”. This is a still livelier picture. There are many fields inclosed and tilled. They are irrigated by the water from a small stream. Upon its banks there are cocoa-trees; and out of the rich moist soil shoot up rows of the majestic plantain, whose immense yellow-green leaves, sheathing the stem and then drooping gracefully over, render it one of the most ornamental productions of the tropics, as its clustering legumes of farinaceous fruit make it one of the most useful. Low walls, white or gaily painted, appear over the fields, and a handsome spire rises above the walls. That is the “hacienda” of the planter – the “rico” of the tierra caliente, with its out-buildings and chapel belfry. You approach it through scenes of cultivation. “Peons”, clad in white cotton and reddish leathern garments, are busy in the fields. Upon their heads are broad-brimmed hats, woven from the leaf of the sombrero palm. Their legs are naked, and upon their feet are tied rude sandals (guarachés) with leathern thongs. Their skins are dark, though not black; their eyes are wild and sparkling; their looks grave and solemn; their hair coarse, long, and crow-black; and, as they walk, their toes turn inward. Their downcast looks, their attitudes and demeanour, impress you with the conviction that they are those who carry the water and hew the wood of the country. It is so. They are the “Indios mansos” (the civilised Indians): slaves, in fact, though freemen by the letter of the law. They are the “peons”, the labourers, the serfs of the land – the descendants of the conquered sons of Anahuac.
Such are the people you find in the tierra caliente of Mexico – in the environs of Vera Cruz. They do not differ much from the inhabitants of the high plains, either in costume, customs, or otherwise. In fact, there is a homogeneousness about the inhabitants of all Spanish America – making allowance for difference of climate and other peculiarities – rarely found in any other people.
Before daybreak of the morning after my interview with the “swearing major”, a head appeared between the flaps of my tent. It was that of Sergeant Bob Lincoln.
“The men air under arms, Cap’n.”
“Very well,” cried I, leaping from my bed, and hastily buckling on my accoutrements.
I looked forth. The moon was still brightly shining, and I could see a number of uniformed men standing upon the company parade, in double rank. Directly in front of my tent a small boy was saddling a very small horse. The boy was “Little Jack”, as the soldiers called him; and the horse was little Jack’s mustang, “Twidget.”
Jack wore a tight-fitting green jacket, trimmed with yellow lace, and buttoned up to the throat; pantaloons of light green, straight cut, and striped along the seams; a forage-cap set jauntily upon a profusion of bright curls; a sabre with a blade of eighteen inches, and a pair of clinking Mexican spurs. Besides these, he carried the smallest of all rifles. Thus armed and accoutred, he presented the appearance of a miniature Ranger.
Twidget had his peculiarities. He was a tight, wiry little animal, that could live upon mezquite beans or maguey leaves for an indefinite time; and his abstemiousness was often put to the test. Afterwards, upon an occasion during the battles in the valley of Mexico, Jack and Twidget had somehow got separated, at which time the mustang had been shut up for four days in the cellar of a ruined convent with no other food than stones and mortar! How Twidget came by his name is not clear. Perhaps it was some waif of the rider’s own fancy.
As I appeared at the entrance of my tent, Jack had just finished strapping on his Mexican saddle; and seeing me, up he ran to assist in serving my breakfast. This was hastily despatched, and our party took the route in silence through the sleeping camp. Shortly after, we were joined by the major, mounted on a tall, raw-boned horse; while a darkie, whom the major addressed as “Doc”, rode a snug, stout cob, and carried a large basket. This last contained the major’s commissariat.
We were soon travelling along the Orizava road, the major and Jack riding in advance. I could not help smiling at the contrast between these two equestrians; the former with his great gaunt horse, looming up in the uncertain light of the morning like some huge centaur; while Jack and Twidget appeared the two representatives of the kingdom of Lilliput.
On turning an angle of the forest, a horseman appeared at some distance along the road. The major gradually slackened his pace, until he was square with the head of the column, and then fell back into the rear. This manoeuvre was executed in the most natural manner, but I could plainly see that the mounted Mexican had caused the major no small degree of alarm.
The horseman proved to be a zambo, in pursuit of cattle that had escaped from a neighbouring corral. I put some inquiries to him in relation to the object of our expedition. The zambo pointed to the south, saying in Spanish that mules were plenty in that direction.
“Hay muchos, muchissimos,” (There are many), said he, as he indicated a road which led through a strip of forest on our left.
Following his direction, we struck into the new path, which soon narrowed into a bridle-road or trail. The men were thrown into single file, and marched à l’Indienne. The road darkened, passing under thick-leaved trees, that met and twined over our heads.
At times the hanging limbs and joined parasites caused the major to flatten his huge body upon the horn of the saddle; and once or twice he was obliged to alight, and walk under the impeding branches of the thorny acacias.
Our journey continued without noise, silence being interrupted only by an occasional oath from the major – uttered, however, in a low tone, as we were now fairly “in the woods”. The road at length opened upon a small prairie or glade, near the borders of which rose a “butte”, covered with chaparral.
Leaving the party in ambuscade below, I ascended the butte, to obtain a view of the surrounding