Harper's New Monthly Magazine. No. XVI.—September, 1851—Vol. III. Various
to her hand, and been rejected. Jealousy had moved the fiend to his terrible revenge.
It is three leagues from Mexico to San Angel. The road runs through meadows and fields of magueys. Except the lone pulqueria, at the corner where a cross-path leads to the hacienda of Narvarte, there is not a house before reaching the bridge of Coyoacan. Here there is a cluster of buildings – "fabricas" – that, during the stay of our army, had been occupied by a regiment. Before arriving at this point we saw no one; and here only people who, waked from their sleep by the tread of our horses, had not the curiosity to follow us.
San Angel is a mile further up the hill. Before entering the village we divided into five parties, each to be guided by one of the girls. L – 's vengeance was especially directed toward the ci-devant lover of his betrothed. She herself, knowing his residence, was to be our guide.
Proceeding through narrow lanes, we arrived in a suburb of the village, and halted before a house of rather stylish appearance. We had dismounted outside the town, leaving our horses in charge of a guard. It was very dark, and we clustered around the door. One knocked – a voice was heard from within – Rafaela recognized it as that of the ruffian himself. The knock was repeated, and one of the party who spoke the language perfectly, called out:
"Open the door! Open, Don Pedro!"
"Who is it?" asked the voice.
"Yo," (I) was the simple reply.
This is generally sufficient to open the door of a Mexican house, and Don Pedro was heard within, moving toward the "Saguan."
The next moment the great door swung back on its hinges, and the ruffian was dragged forth. He was a swarthy, fierce-looking fellow – from what I could see in the dim light – and made a desperate resistance, but he was in the hands of men who soon overpowered and bound him. We did not delay a moment, but hurried back to the place where we had left our horses. As we passed through the streets, men and women were running from house to house, and we heard voices and shots in the distance. On reaching our rendezvous, we found our comrades, all of whom had succeeded in making their capture.
There was no time to be lost; there might be troops in the village – though we saw none – but whether or not, there were "leperos" enough to assail us. We did not give them time to muster. Mounting ourselves and our prisoners we rode off at a rapid pace, and were soon beyond the danger of pursuit.
Those who have passed through the gate of Nino Perdido will remember that the road leading to San Angel runs, for nearly a mile, in a straight line, and that, for this distance, it is lined on both sides with a double row of large old trees. It is one of the drives (paseos) of Mexico. Where the trees end, the road bends slightly to the south. At this point a cross road strikes off to the pueblito of Piedad, and at the crossing there is a small house, or rather a temple, where the pious wayfarer kneels in his dusty devotions. This little temple, the residence of a hermitical monk, was uninhabited during our occupation of the valley, and, in the actions that resulted in the capture of the city, it had come in for more than its share of hard knocks. A battery had been thrown up beside it, and the counter-battery had bored the walls of the temple with round shot. I never passed this solitary building without admiring its situation. There was no house nearer it than the aforementioned "tinacal" of Narvarte, or the city itself. It stood in the midst of swampy meadows, bordered by broad plats of the green maguey, and this isolation, together with the huge old trees that shadowed and sang over it, gave the spot an air of romantic loneliness.
On arriving under the shelter of the trees, and in front of the lone temple, our party halted by order of their leader. Several of the troopers dismounted, and the prisoners were taken down from their horses. I saw men uncoiling ropes that had hung from their saddle-bows, and I shuddered to think of the use that was about to be made of them.
"Henry," said L – , riding up to me, and speaking in a whisper, "they must not see this." – He pointed to the girls. – "Take them some distance ahead and wait for us, we will not be long about it, I promise."
Glad of the excuse to be absent from such a scene, I put spurs to my horse, and rode forward, followed by the females of the party. On reaching the circle near the middle of the paseo I halted.
It was quite dark, and we could see nothing of those we had left behind us. We could hear nothing – nothing but the wind moaning high up among the branches of the tall poplars; but this, with the knowledge I had of what was going on so near me, impressed me with an indescribable feeling of sadness.
L – had kept his promise; he was not long about it. In less than ten minutes the party came trotting up, chatting gayly as they rode, but their prisoners had been left behind!..
As the American army moved down the road to Vera Cruz, many traveling carriages were in its train. In one of these were a girl and a gray-haired old man. Almost constantly during the march a young officer might be seen riding by this carriage, conversing through the windows with its occupants within.
A short time after the return-troops landed at New Orleans, a bridal party were seen to enter the old Spanish cathedral; the bridegroom was an officer who had lost an arm. His fame, and the reputed beauty of the bride, had brought together a large concourse of spectators.
"She loved me," said L – to me on the morning this his happiest day; "she loved me in spite of my mutilated limb, and should I cease to love her because she has – no, I see it not; she is to me the same as ever."
And there were none present who saw it; few were there who knew that under those dark folds of raven hair were the souvenirs of a terrible tragedy…
The Mexican government behaved better to the Ayankeeados than was expected. They did not confiscate the property; and L – is now enjoying his fortune in a snug hacienda, somewhere in the neighborhood of San Angel.
THE POOLS OF ELLENDEEN
Joel Jerdan was a thriving retail hosier, in a close street at the eastern end of the vast metropolis. He had a snug little shop, and a nice, snug little wife, together with an annually increasing nice little family; and Joel himself, if we except one weakness, was the most diligent and steady little fellow to be found within the circuit where the musical bells of Bow are heard. Small in person, pleasing in exterior, and scrupulously neat in his attire, Joel Jerdan was always considered a peculiarly dapper, civil, smart tradesman. His father had pursued the same business in the same house; and though there were not large profits, there was certainly contentment, which Joel very wisely judged was far better. It did not require any vivid stretch of imagination to form a comparison between the venerable Izaak Walton, of piscatorial celebrity, and our hosier; for, like that immortal angler, Joel was devoted to his calling and usually confined to precincts of no large dimensions, but making his escape whenever he could to enjoy the sole recreation of his existence – that recreation being the sport with which Izaak's name is ever associated.
Joel Jerdan was a worthy disciple of this renowned piscator – at least, he would have been had he strictly followed that master's injunctions; but, if truth must be all confessed, the one weakness already alluded to in our little hosier, consisted of indulgence beyond the bounds of strict sobriety, when any prolonged or favorable "sport" more than usually elated his spirits. On such occasions, Patty, his faithful wife, of course lectured the recreant hosier most severely; while he, shocked and humbled, meekly promised "never to do so any more," and kept his word until betrayed into temptation again. Being a water-drinker at home, from motives of prudence, not to say necessity, it did not require much in the way of stimulus to render poor little Joel addle-headed. Whenever he could spare an hour or two on the long summer evenings, after the business of the day was pretty well over, leaving the shop to Patty's care, away sallied Joel to the docks, there to watch his float and forget his cares, until night's sombre shadows warned him that all sober citizens were retiring bedward. It was only at rare intervals that Joel enjoyed a whole day's fishing; for, in the first place, he could not absent himself from pressing daily duties, and, in the second, he had no friend resident in the country within easy access, to whom he could resort for an introduction to babbling streams and flowery meads. He had toiled early and late, as his excellent father had done before him; and when Patty's brother retired from official life (he was a nobleman's butler), and became proprietor