The Missourian

by Eugene P. Lyle

  CHAPTER VII

  SWORDSMANSHIP IN THE DARK

  "Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably." --_As You Like It._

  "Strange there's no motion," thought Jacqueline the next morning,rubbing her eyes. "Why, what ails the old boat, I wonder?" Then sheremembered. She was in the Tampico hotel which called itself a cafe, andthe landlord's wife was knocking on her door and calling "Nin-a, nin-a"with a plaintive stress on the first syllable. The word means girl, andoddly enough, is often used by a Mexican servant to address hermistress.

  "I'm not a n-e-e-n-ya," Jacqueline assured her drowsily, "and if I were,madame, why make a fete out of it this way in the middle of the night?"

  "Nin-a," the unctuous nasal rose higher, "if Your Mercy goes with DonAnastasio, she must hurry. It is late. It is four o'clock, nina."

  "Four o'clock--late?" gasped the luxurious little marquise. "And howmuch difference, exactly, would your four o'clocks make on the planetMars, my good woman?"

  "But nina, there is Don Anastasio, he is ready to start."

  "And who is Don Anastasio, pray?"

  "The trader, nina, at the meson. He is to take Your Mercy to Valles, asDon--as the Capitan Morel told Your Mercy yesterday."

  "The Capitan Morel, _pardi!_ Faith, if any man had told me it meantrising at any such unholy hour. Oh well, I suppose it is the hour forlarks, too."

  And sighing at the sacrifice of an age of slumber, Jacqueline reachedout for the matches. But there was no dainty limbed night table of aLouis XV. beside her bed, which helped her again to remember where shewas, and if doubts still remained, they were gone when her bare feettouched the fibrous, prickly native carpet instead of soft furs.

  She groped to the door, and opened it enough to take a greasily odorouscandle from a dusky hand outside. As the sickly glimmer awakened theshadows, she called the woman back in sudden dismay. "My trunk, senora,kindly have it sent up at once. No," she added, catching a fluffygarment from a chair, "in five minutes."

  There was a brief silence, followed by positive lament. "Nina, it is nothere. I believe, nin-a, it is at the meson, with Don Anastasio."

  "F-flute!" cried Jacqueline. The word means nothing at all, but it mayexpress a lass's exasperation in a wardrobe crisis, and that is nothingexcept a catastrophe. "Now just possibly," she soliloquized, "theypermit themselves to imagine that one can wear a white frock two daystogether," whereupon she sat herself down despairingly among the crispthings that had already had their poor little day. To mock her there wasthe jaunty handsatchel packed for an hour's shore leave. She letpetulance have sway, and informed herself that she should not go a step,when the voice in the hall pleaded insidiously that Her Mercy makehaste.

  "But I am, senora, I'm making fast haste," and she sat three minuteslonger, communing with her tragedy. "_Oh_, this bitten, bitingcountry," she cried, gazing ruefully at arms and shoulders, and fieryblotches on the soft white skin. "Still, if there's a brigand for everymosquito, it may yet be worth while." Hopefully she rose and calledBerthe from the next room to help her dress.

  When the two girls came downstairs, the landlord's wife took theirsatchel, and led them over broken sidewalks to the meson, where thestreet was filled with torches and laden burros and blanketed shadows.Murguia's caravan was forming, making a weird, stealthy scene ofactivity. Jacqueline picked up a lantern, and searched here and there.

  "Now where _can_ it be?" she cried.

  The rebosa about the shoulders of the Mexican woman rose. She knewnothing. But the gesture was an unabridged philosophical system as tothe resignation and the indifference that is seemly when one knowsnothing. Jacqueline refrained from pinching her, and pursued the questof her trunk even into the meson.

  Hardly had she passed within when a greatly agitated little old mantried to overtake her. But at the door he thought better of it andvented his chagrin on the Mexican woman.

  "Why did you let her go in there?" he cried. "She will wake the Gringo,she will wake the Gringo!"

  Jacqueline reappeared. "No trunk," she announced. "Do you know, Berthe,I do not believe it came at all?"

  The old man's voice sounded at her elbow, faltering, placating. "Withpermission, senorita, we must be starting."

  "And similarly with permission, senor, who are you?"

  "Anastasio Murguia, the servant of Your Mercy."

  "Ah, the poor little crow? Perhaps you will tell me, sir, why neitherthe Senor Ney nor Fra--nor Captain Morel is here?"

  The young French caballero had visited the fort last evening, hereplied. Her Mercy knew that? Yes, precisamente. Yes, the caballero hadspent the night up there with his compatriots of the garrison. Her Mercydid not know that? No? But it was quite exact, yes, because he, DonAnastasio, had been so informed. But the Senor Ney would meet them outof Tampico--yes, precisamente, with a detachment of cavalry from thefort."

  "That poor Michel!" said Jacqueline. "He's determined that I am to havea French escort. But Captain Morel, senor?"

  Murguia would not answer. He repeated the question to the Mexican woman,who took up explanations with a glib readiness. "Si, nina, I saw thecapitan, not more than an hour ago. He was riding by the cafe, to meethis--Contra Guerrillas. But he stopped and woke me. He said that I wasto bring Your Mercies here to the meson, and to say that he would meetYour Mercies--yes, surely, before you had gone very far, nina." Her tonewas a sugared whine, and more than once she peered around at Murguia;while he, for his part, stood by as though overseeing a task. ButJacqueline only allowed herself a little inconsequential sniff, and wentback to the really serious business that did worry her. She demanded hertrunk.

  "How, the senorita does not know?" asked Murguia.

  "Know what?"

  "That the sailors did not come back from the ship?"

  "Not come back! Eh bien, I will not go a step."

  At first Don Anastasio's pinched face lighted with relief. But at once aconflicting anxiety, lest she might _not_ go, seemed to possesshim. "But senorita," he protested, "what will Your Mercy do? The ship,yes, senorita, the ship has sailed already. It left last night for VeraCruz."

  "And here am I," Jacqueline exclaimed, tapping her foot, "with only onedress!"

  A long bubbling whistle sounded near a gendarme's lantern in the middleof the street. A block away another sounded, then another, and another,and others yet, each thinly shrill and distant. It was the challenge toslumber and the answer of wakefulness from the watches of the night overthe silent city.

  "Another quarter gone by!" Murguia exclaimed nervously. "Come,senoritas, if we are to reach the Valles stage by nightfall, we have notime to lose. There are your horses, I will----"

  A tremor cut short his words. Someone had just emerged from the meson.

  "Gracious, Murgie, off so early?" the newcomer observed cheerily.

  Murguia scowled. He knew that tone.

  "If I'm late, I apologize," the other drawled gently, from behind theflare of a match over his pipe. "Howsoever, all my eyes weren't shut,and you wouldn't of left me. Pretty quiet about striking camp, though!Didn't want to disturb me, maybe? Well, well, who made you sothoughtful? Not Captain Morel? Now I wonder!"

  "I uh, why _should_ I wake you, Mis-ter Driscoll? Have I asked youeven to go?"

  "N-o, but you evidently asked old Demijohn there." And Driscoll pointedto his horse, all saddled. "But cheer up, Convoluting Squirmer, ofcourse I know you aren't a horse thief. No, I just come out to say youforgot the blanket. I was sleeping on it."

  Then he turned to the two girls. They were going also. But why try toleave him behind, even without a horse? He knew, for all his whimsicalcheerfulness, that something serious was afoot. It was hardly likelythat the girls themselves had interfered. Still, he must make sure. Toprovoke a reply elsewhere, he asked Murguia if it were the senoritas,perhaps, and not Captain Morel, who preferred his absence? A surprised"Ma foi!" from Jacqueline answered him. As he supposed, she had notthought of him one way or a
nother.

  But she deigned to say, that since the American _gentleman_--therewas a lingering on the word, which opened wide the Storm Centre's eyeswith anticipation of battle--that since the American gentleman hadbroached the subject of his going (as no doubt interesting him, beingabout himself), then she would permit herself to inquire why, indeed, heshould be going with them at all. She had not observed any cordiality inthe requests for his society.

  The light was not good, and she did not see his lips pucker as for along whistle. But he did not whistle. He replied very humbly; and sosweetly that Murguia quailed for the little shrew.

  "W'y miss," he said, "it all comes of feeling my responsibility. I'm thecause of your going, and that's why I'm going too."

  His very earnestness gave her to understand that he had forgotten herentirely. The finesse of the Tuileries could not have struck home moredelicately, and more keenly. "I've often heard," she thought to herself,"that an awkward swordsman is dangerous." But she made no cry of"touchee!" Instead she caught at the point to turn the blade aside."Responsibility? Truly sir, you _are_ considerate. But permitme--my safety on this trip, what concern can that have for Your Mercy?"

  "None at all," replied Driscoll, heartily.

  His brow, none the less, was crinkled, and he watched dubiously asMurguia helped the two girls into great armchair-like saddles. There wasnot a woman's saddle in Tampico, but Jeanne d'Aumerle did not mind that.She, the marchioness, enjoyed the oddity of a pommel in lieu of horn.And the lady's maid might have been on a dromedary, for all theconsciousness the poor child had of it.

  "Say," Driscoll interrupted with cool obstinacy, "where's our friend thecaptain and that sky-blue Frenchman?"

  Murguia pretended not to heed him. Jacqueline really did not. But Berthespoke up eagerly. She said that the two gentlemen were to meet themlater in the day. At least she hoped so, but--no, no, there could be nodoubt of it! Yet her words faltered, and there was an appeal in them.But if she placed any hope in the strange American, she was quicklydisappointed.

  "All right," he said, as if the matter were of no further consequence."Then I can make a nice comfortable report to Maximilian."

  "Report to Maximiliano?" exclaimed Murguia.

  Driscoll nodded indifferently.

  "But Senor Coronel, when you do, you--you will remember that I saidnothing to--that is, to persuade the senoritas to take this journey."

  "Nor not to take it, Wriggler."

  "Yet you will say to His Majesty that I did suggest--yes, I do now--thatthey had better not----"

  His utterance drivelled to incoherency. The Mexican woman, she of thecafe, stood before him. There was a warning on her stolid countenance.Murguia wet his lips. "But," he stammered, "there--oh what danger canthere be in their going?"

  Driscoll shoved him aside and placed himself at the head of Jacqueline'shorse. "You had better risk the water, miss," he said quietly.

  "My good sir," she replied, clear and cold, "I commend your prudence, inmaking certain, before you dared touch my bridle-rein, that neither ofthe two gentlemen were here."

  Din Driscoll swung on his heel. "Damned!" he murmured, and he pronouncedthe "n" and the "d" thoroughly, to make the word adequate if possible."Lord, I believe I feel like a closed incident! And to think, Demijohn,"he went on as he busied himself about his horse, "to think that it's thefirst and only time we've ever seen trouble coming and tried to keep outof it."

  But the trouble might appear now, he had done what he could. The thoughtbrightened him, and he patted his short ribs musingly. There was afriendly protuberance there on either side. His belt saggedcomfortingly. He opened the pack which he was tying with his blanketbehind his saddle, and from it he filled with cartridges the pockets ofhis rough cape coat.

  By now the caravan was passing him. The burros, like square-shelledmonstrosities with ears, were settling into a steady trot. Theirblanketed arrieros ran beside them and prodded, and were in turn proddedby the fretful Murguia. Then Jacqueline rode by on an ambling littlemountain-climber. She had forgotten his presence. This was not a posewith the Marquise d'Aumerle; she had, really. But her little Breton maidcoming behind timidly drew rein. Driscoll looked and saw in the movingyellow torchlights that her face was white. A thing like that somehowalters a man's attitude. "W'y, child," he exclaimed, "what's----"

  "Monsi--senor," she said hastily, in pathetic and pretty broken Spanish,"you, oh, you will not leave us! In the mercy of heaven, tell me thatyou will not! Ah, seigneur," she sobbed, "mademoiselle will yet lead usto our death!"

  "Berthe," mademoiselle at that instant called, "oh you little ninny, areyou coming ever?"

  The maid obeyed. "Just the same," she sighed, "God bless her!"

  "And did I," Driscoll had begun angrily, but she was already gone, andhe finished it to himself, "did I once intend to leave you?"

  He leaped astride his buckskin horse, who trotted with him briskly tothe head of the caravan. Behind was Anastasio Murguia, a quaintcombination of silk hat, shawl, and ranchero saddle. The two Frenchwomenfollowed, and behind came the straggling file of burros and pack horses.

  Yet the American was as a solitary traveller leaving a town for thewilderness at the first touch of dawn. The road soon narrowed down to atrail as it wound through the undergrowth of the Huasteca lowlands, thenwestward toward a bluish line of mountains. At each cross trail theAmerican would turn in his saddle to force an indication of their coursefrom Murguia. Then on he would ride again, the while sinking deeper anddeeper into his thoughts; thoughts of why he had come, of how he mightsucceed, and of the Surrender at that moment perhaps a fact. For him,though, there was his sabre yet, dangling there under his leg. And therewere the sabres of comrades that likewise would not be given up, for tosave them that shame was he in Mexico. Riding there, so much alone, andlonely, he was a rough, savage, military figure. But in his meditations,so grave and unwonted in the wild, hard-riding trooper lad, there wasnothing to indicate a second nature in him, an instinct that was on thealert against every leafy clump and cactus and mesh of vine.