Confessions Of Con Cregan Part 44

The maddened horses, alternately rising and sinking, writhed and twisted in agonies of pain. The men's voices mingled with the gus.h.i.+ng torrent and the splas.h.i.+ng water, which rose higher and higher at each plunge, while a shrill shriek from within the wagon topped all, and in its cadence seemed to speak a heart torn with terror. As I looked, the sun had set; and as speedily as though a curtain had fallen, the soft light of evening gave way to a gray darkness. I rode down to the bank, and as I reached it, one of the horses, after a terrific struggle to get free, plunged head foremost down and disappeared. The other, unable by himself alone to resist the weight of the wagon, which already was floating in the stream, swung round with the torrent, and was now dragging along toward the cataract. The dusky indistinctness even added to the terror of the picture, as the white water splashed up on every side, and at times seemed actually to cover the whole party in its scattering foam.

The Friar, now leaning back, tore open one of the curtains, and at the same instant I saw a female arm stretch out and clasp him, while a shrill cry burst forth that thrilled to my very heart.

They were already within a few yards of the cataract; a moment or two more, they must be over it and lost! I spurred Charry forward, and down we plunged into the water, without the slightest thought of what was to follow. Half swimming, half bounding, I reached the wagon, which now, broadside on the falls, tottered with every stroke of the fast rolling river. The Mexican was standing on the pole, and endeavoring to hold back the horse; while the Friar, ripping the canvas with his knife, was endeavoring to extricate the female figure, who, sunk on her knees, seemed utterly incapable of any effort for her own safety.

Whether maddened by the bite of some monster beneath the water, or having lost his footing, I know not, but the horse went over the falls, while the Mexican, vainly endeavoring to hold him, was carried down with him; the wagon, reeling with the shock, heeled over to the side, and was fast sinking, when I caught hold of the outstretched hand of the woman and drew her towards me. "Leap, spring towards him!" cried the Friar; and she obeyed the words, and, with a bound, seated herself behind me.

Breasting the water bravely, Charry bounded on, and in less than a minute reached the bank, which the Friar, by the aid of a leaping-pole, had gained before us.

Having placed the half-lifeless girl on the sward, I hastened to see after the poor Mexican. Alas! of him and the horse we never saw trace afterwards. We called aloud, we shouted, and even continued along the stream for a considerable s.p.a.ce; but to no purpose, the poor fellow had evidently perished,--perhaps by a death too horrible to think of. The Friar wrung his hands in agony, and mingled his thanksgiving for his own safety with lamentations for his lost companion; and so intent was he on these themes that he never recognized me, nor, indeed, seemed conscious of my presence. At last, as we turned our steps towards where the girl lay, he said, "Is it possible that you are the caballero we parted with before sunset?"

"Yes," said I, "the same. You were loth to accept of my company, but you see there is a fate in it, after all; you cannot get rid of me so readily."

"Nor shall we try, Senhor," said the girl, pa.s.sionately, but with a foreign accent in her words, as she took my hands and pressed them to her lips.

The Friar said something hastily in Spanish, which seemed a rebuke, for she drew back at once, and buried her face in her mantle.

"Donna Maria is my niece, Senhor, and has only just left the convent of the 'Sacred Heart.' She knows nothing of the world, nor what beseems her as a young maiden."

This the Friar spoke harshly, and with a manner that to me sounded far more in need of an apology than did the young girl's grateful emotion.

What was to be done became now the question. We were at least thirty miles from Bexar, and not a village, nor even a log-hut, between us and that city. To go back was impossible; so that, like practical people, we at once addressed ourselves to the available alternative.

"Picket your beast, and let us light a fire," said Fra Miguel, with the air of a man who would not waste life in vain regrets. "Thank Providence, we have both gra.s.s and water; and although the one always brings snakes, and the other alligators, it is better than to bivouac on the Red River, with iron ore in the stream, and hard flints to sleep on."

Fastening my beast to a tree, I unstrapped my saddlebags and removed my saddle; disposing which most artistically in the fas.h.i.+on of an arm-chair for Donna Maria at the foot of a stupendous beech, I set about the preparation of a fire. The Friar, however, had almost antic.i.p.ated me, and, with both arms loaded with dead wood, sat himself down to construct a species of hearth, placing a little circle of stones around in such a way as to give a draught to the blaze.

"We must fast to-night, Senhor," said he; "but it will count to us hereafter. Fan the fire with your hat, it will soon blaze briskly."

"If it were not for that young lady," said I, "whose sufferings are far greater than ours--"

"Speak not of her, Senhor; Donna Maria de los Dolores was called after our Mother of Sorrows, and she may as well begin her apprentices.h.i.+p to grief. She is the only child of my brother, who had sent her to be educated at New Orleans, and is now returning home to see her father, before she takes the veil of her novitiate."

A very low sigh--so low as only to be audible to myself--came from beneath the beech-tree; and I threw a handful of dry chips upon the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of the features of my fair fellow-traveller. Fra Miguel, however, balked my stratagem by topping the fire with a stout log, as he said, "You are too spendthrift, Senhor; we shall need to husband our resources, or we 'll not have enough for the night long."

"Would you not like to come nearer to the blaze, Senhora?" said I, respectfully.

"Thanks, sir, but perhaps--"

"Speak out, child," broke in the Father, "speak out, and say that you are counting your rosary, and would not wish to be disturbed. And you, Senhor, if I err not, in your eagerness to aid us have forgotten to water your gallant beast: don't lead him to the stream, that would be unsafe; take my sombrero: it has often served a like purpose before now.

Twice full is enough for any horse in these countries." I would have declined this offer, but I felt that submission in everything would be my safest pa.s.sport to his good opinion; and so, armed with the "Friar's beaver," I made my way to the stream.

Whatever his eulogies upon the pitcher-like qualities of his head-piece, to me they seemed most undeserved; for scarcely had I filled it, than the water ran through like a sieve. The oftener, too, was the process repeated the less chance did there appear of success; for, instead of retaining the fluid at all, the material became so saturated that it threatened to tear in pieces every time it was filled, and ere I could lift it was totally empty. Half angry with the Friar, and still more annoyed at my own inept.i.tude, I gave up the effort, and returned to where I had left him, confessing my failure as I came forward.

"Steep your 'kerchief in the stream, then, and wash the beast's mouth,"

said he, upon his knees, where, with a great string of beads, he was engaged with his devotions.

I retired, abashed at my intrusion, and proceeded to do as I was directed.

"What if all these cares for my horse, and all these devotional exercises, were but stratagems to get rid of my company for a season?"

thought I, as I perceived that scarcely had I left the spot, than the Friar arose from his knees, and seemed to busy himself about something in the trees. Full of this impression, I made a little circuit of the place; and what was my surprise to observe that he had converted his upper robe of coa.r.s.e blanket-cloth into a kind of hammock for Donna Maria, in which, fastened at either end to the bough of a tree, she was now swinging to and fro, with apparently all the pleasure of a happy child.

"Don't you like it, Uncle, after all?" said she laughing. "It's exactly what one has read of in Juan Cordova's stories, to be bivouacking in a great forest, with a great fire, to keep away the jaguars."

"Hus.h.!.+ and go to sleep, child. I neither like it for thee nor myself.

There are more dangerous things than jaguars in these woods."

"Ah, you mean the bears, Uncle?"

"I do not," growled he, sulkily.

"As for snakes, one gets used to them; besides, they go into the tall gra.s.s."

"Ay, ay, snakes in the gra.s.s, just so!" muttered the Friar; "but this youth will be back presently, and let him not hear you talk such silly nonsense. Good night, good night."

"Good night," sighed she, "but I cannot sleep; I love so to see the fireflies dancing through the leaves, and to hear that rus.h.i.+ng river."

"Hus.h.!.+ he's coming," said the Friar; and all was still.

When I came up, "the Friar" was again sunk in holy meditation, so that, disposing myself beside the fire, with my rifle at one side, and my pistols at the other, I lay down to sleep. Although I closed my eyes and lay still, I did not sleep. My thoughts were full of Donna Maria, of whom I weaved a hundred conjectures. It was evident she was young; her voice was soft and musical too, and had that pleasant bell-like cadence so indicative of a light heart and a happy nature. Why was she called the "Los Dolores"? I asked myself again and again what had she in her joyous-ness to do with grief and care; and why should she enter a convent and become a nun? These were questions there was no solving, and apparently, if I might judge from the cadence of her now deep sigh, no less puzzling to herself than to me. The more my interest became excited for her, the stronger grew my dislike to the Friar. That he was a surly old tyrant, I perfectly satisfied myself. What a pity that I could not rescue her from such cruelty as easily as I saved her from the cataract!

Would that I could even see her! There was something so tormenting in the mystery of her concealment, and so, I deemed, must she herself feel it. We should be so happy together, journeying along day by day through the forest! What tales would I not tell her of my wanderings, and how I should enjoy the innocence of her surprise at my travelled wonders! And all the strange objects of these wild woods,--how they would interest and amuse, were there "two" to wonder at and admire them! How I wished she might be pretty; what a disappointment if she were not; what a total rout to all my imaginings if she were to have red hair,--how terrible if she should squint! These thoughts at last became too tantalizing for endurance, and so I tried to fall asleep and forget them; but in vain, they had got too firm a hold of me, and I could not shake them off.

It was now about midnight, the fire waxed low, and "the Friar" was sound asleep. What connection was there between these considerations and her of whom I was thinking? Who knows? I arose and sat up, listening with eager ear to the low long breathings of the Friar, who, with his round bullet-head pillowed on a pine-log, slept soundly; the gentle hum of the leaves, scarcely moved by the night wind, and the distant sound of the falling water, were lullabies to his slumber. It was a gorgeous night of stars; the sky was studded with bright orbs in all the brilliant l.u.s.tre of a southern lat.i.tude. The fireflies, too, danced and glittered on every side, leaving traces of the phosphoric light on the leaves as they pa.s.sed. The air was warm and balmy with "the rich odor of the cedar and the acacia,"--just such a night as one would like to pa.s.s in "converse sweet" with some dear friend, mingling past memories with shadowy dreams, and straying along from bygones to futurity.

I crept over stealthily to where the Friar lay: a lively fear prevailed with me that he might be feigning sleep, and so I watched him long and narrowly. No, it was an honest slumber; the deep guttural of his mellow throat was beyond counterfeiting. I threw a log upon the fire carelessly and with noise, to see if it would awake him; but he only muttered a word or two that sounded like Latin, and slept on. I now strained my eyes towards the hammock, of which, under the shadow of a great sycamore-tree, I could barely detect the outline through the leaves.

Should I be able to discern her features, were I to creep over? What a difficult question, and how impossible to decide by mere reasoning upon it! What if I were to try? It was a pure piece of curiosity,--curiosity of the most harmless kind. I had been, doubtless, just as eager to scan the Friar's lineaments, if he had taken the same pains to conceal them from me. It was absurd, besides, to travel with a person and not see their face. Intercourse was a poor thing without that reciprocity which looks convey. I 'll have a peep, at all events, said I, summing up to myself all my arguments; and with this resolve I moved cautiously along, and, making a wide circuit, came round to the foot of the sycamore, at the side most remote from the Friar.

There was the hammock, almost within reach of my hand! It seemed to swing to and fro. I cannot say if this were mere deception; and so I crept nearer, just to satisfy my doubts. At last I reached the side, and peeped in. All I could see was the outline of a figure wrapped in a mantle, and a ma.s.s of soft silky hair, which fell over and shaded the face. It was some time before my eyes grew accustomed to the deep shadow of the spot; but by degrees I could perceive the profile of a young and beautiful face resting upon one arm, the other hung negligently at one side, and the hand drooped over the edge of the hammock. The att.i.tude was the very perfection of graceful ease, and such as a sculptor might have modelled. What a study, too, that hand, whose dimpled loveliness the starlight speckled! How could I help touching it with my lips?--the first time, with all the hallowed reverence a wors.h.i.+pper would vouchsafe to some holy relic; the second, with a more fervent devotion; the third, I ventured to take the hand in mine and slightly press it. Did I dream?

Could the ecstasy be no more than fancy?--I thought the pressure was returned.

She turned gently around, and in a voice of surpa.s.sing softness whispered, "Tell me your name, Senhor Caballero?" I whispered low, "Con Cregan."

"Yes, but what do your sisters call you?"

"I have none, Senhora."

"Your brothers, then?"

"I never had a brother."

"How strange! nor I either. Then how shall I call you?"

"Call me your brother," said I, trying to repossess myself of the hand she had gently withdrawn from my grasp.

"And will you call me Maria?" said she, gayly.

"If you permit it, Maria. But how will Fra Miguel think of it?"