Mayne Reid - The War Trail - The Hunt of the Wild Horse

As I ate my frugal breakfast, such a vision was passing before me. I contemplated the future with pleasant hopes, but not without feelings of uneasiness. I had not forgotten the abrupt parting – no invitation to renew the acquaintance, no hope, no prospect that I should ever behold that beautiful woman again, unless blind chance should prove my friend.

I am not a fatalist, and I therefore resolved not to rely upon mere destiny, but, if possible, to help it a little in its evolution.

Before I had finished my coffee, a dozen schemes had passed through my mind, all tending towards one object – the renewal of my acquaintance with Isolina de Vargas. Unless favoured by some lucky accident, or, what was more desirable, by the lady herself , I knew we might never meet again. In such times, it was not likely she would be much “out-of-doors;” and in a few days, hours perhaps, I might be ordered en route never more to return to that interesting outpost.

As the district was, of course, under martial law, and I was de facto dictator, you will imagine that I might easily have procured the right of entry anywhere. Not so. Whatever be the licence of the mere soldier as regards the common people of a conquered country, the position of the officer with its higher class is essentially different. If a gentleman, he naturally feels a delicacy in making any advances towards an acquaintance; and his honour restrains him from the freer forms of introduction. To take advantage of his position of power would be a positive meanness, of which a true gentleman cannot be guilty. Besides, there may be rancour on the part of the conquered – there usually is – but even when no such feeling exists, another barrier stands in the way of free association between the officer and “society.” The latter feels that the position of affairs will not be permanent; the enemy will in time evacuate, and then the vengeance of mob-patriotism is to be dreaded. Never did the ricos of Mexico feel more secure than while under the protection of the American army: many of them were disposed to be friendly; but the phantom of the future, with its mob émeutes , stared them in the face, and under this dread they were forced to adopt a hypocritical exclusiveness. Epaulettes must not be seen glancing through the windows of their drawing-rooms!

Under such circumstances, my situation was difficult enough. I might gaze upon the outside walls of that handsome hacienda till my heart ached, but how was I to effect an entrance?

To charge a fort, a battery, an intrenched camp – to storm a castle, or break a solid square – one or all would have been child’s play compared with the difficulty of crossing that glacial line of etiquette that separated me from my beautiful enemy.

To effect this purpose, a dozen schemes were passed through my mind, and rejected, till my eyes at length rested upon the most interesting object in the apartment – the little white rope that hung from my saddlebow. In the lazo, I recognised my “forlorn-hope.” That pretty implement must be returned to its owner. I myself should take it home ! So far destiny should be guided by me ; beyond, I should have to put my trust in destiny.

I think best under the influence of a cigar; and lighting one, I ascended to the azotea, to complete my little scheme.

I had scarcely made two turns of the roof, when a horseman galloped into the piazza. He was in dragoon uniform, and I soon perceived he was an orderly from headquarters, inquiring for the commandant of the outpost. One of the men pointed to me; and the orderly trotting forward, drew up in front of the alcalde’s house, and announced that he was the bearer of a dispatch from the general-in-chief, at the same time showing a folded paper. I directed him to pass it up on the point of his sabre, which he did; and then saluting me, he turned his horse and galloped back as he had come.

I opened the dispatch, and read: —

“ Head-quarters, Army of Occupation , —

“ July – th , 1846.

“Sir, – You will take a sufficient number of your men, and proceed to the hacienda of Don Ramon de Yargas, in the neighbourhood of your station. You will there find five thousand head of beeves, which you will cause to be driven to the camp of the American army, and delivered to the commissary-general. You will find the necessary drivers upon the ground, and a portion of your troop will form the escort. The enclosed note will enable you to understand the nature of your duty.

“A.A. Adjutant-general.

“Captain Warfield.”

“Surely,” thought I, as I finished reading – “surely there is a ‘Providence that shapes our ends.’ Just as I was cudgelling my brains for some scheme of introduction to Don Ramon de Vargas, here comes one ready fashioned to my hand.”

I thought no more about the lazo: the rope was no longer an object of prime interest. Trimmed and embellished with the graceful excuse of “duty,” I should now ride boldly up to the hacienda, and enter its gates with the confident air of a welcome guest. Welcome, indeed! A contract for five thousand beeves, and at war-prices! A good stroke of business on the part of the old Don. Of course, I shall see him – “embrace him” – hobnob with him over a glass of Canario or Xeres – get upon the most intimate terms, and so be “asked back.” I am usually popular with old gentlemen, and I trusted to my bright star to place me en rapport with Don Ramon de Vargas. The coralling of the cattle would occupy some time – a brace of hours at the least. That would be outside work, and I could intrust it to my lieutenant or a sergeant. For myself, I was determined to stay by the walls. The Don must go out to look after his vaqueros. It would be rude to leave me alone. He would introduce me to his daughter – he could not do less – a customer on so large a scale! We should be left to ourselves, and then – Ha! Ijurra! I had forgotten him . Would he be there?

The recollection of this man fell like a shadow over the bright fancies I had conjured up.

A dispatch from head-quarters calls for prompt attention and my reflections were cut short by the necessity of carrying the order into execution. Without loss of time, I issued the command for about fifty of the rangers to “boot and saddle.”

I was about to pay more than ordinary attention to my toilet, when it occurred to me I might as well first peruse the “note” referred to in the dispatch. I opened the paper; to my surprise the document was in Spanish. This did not puzzle me, and I read: —

“The five thousand beeves are ready for you, according to the contract, but I cannot take upon me to deliver them. They must be taken from me with a show of force ; and even a little rudeness , on the part of those you send, would not be out of place. My vaqueros are at your service, but I must not command them. You may press them.

“Ramon de Vargas.”

This note was addressed to the commissary-general of the American army. Its meaning, though to the uninitiated a little obscure, was to me as clear as noonday; and, although, it gave me a high opinion of the administrative talents of Don Ramon de Vargas, it was by no means a welcome document. It rendered null every act of the fine programme I had sketched out. By its directions, there was to be no “embracing,” no hobnobbing over wine, no friendly chat with the Don, no tête-à-tête with his beautiful daughter – no; but, on the contrary, I was to ride up with a swagger, bang the doors, threaten the trembling porter, kick the peons, and demand from their master five thousand head of beef-cattle – all in true freebooting style!