Gustave Aimard
The Indian Chief
The Story of a Revolution
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066235468
Table of Contents
THE INTERVIEW.
THE MISSION.
THE SPY.
THE FIRST POWDER BURNT.
REPRISALS.
THE ENVOY.
DOÑA ANGELA.
THE AMBASSADORS.
THE PLAN OF THE CAMPAIGN.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
LA MAGDALENA.
THE INTERVIEW.
FATHER SERAPHIN.
THE QUEBRADA DEL COYOTE.
THE SURPRISE.
THE FORWARD MARCH.
BEFORE THE ATTACK.
THE CAPTURE OF HERMOSILLO.
AFTER THE VICTORY.
THE HACIENDA DEL MILAGRO.
THE BOAR AT BAY.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
THE CATASTROPHE.
PREFACE.
With this volume terminates the series in which Gustave Aimard has described the sad fate of the Count de Raousset-Boulbon, who fell a victim to Mexican treachery. In the next volume to be published, under the title of the "Trail Hunter," will be found the earlier history of some of the characters whose acquaintance the reader has formed, I trust with pleasure, in the present series.
L.W.
CHAPTER I.
THE INTERVIEW.
The Jesuits founded in Mexico missions round which, with the patience that constantly distinguished them, an unbounded charity, and a perseverance which nothing could discourage, they succeeded in collecting a large number of Indians, whom they instructed in the principal and most touching dogmas of their faith—whom they baptized, instructed, and induced to till the soil.
These missions, at first insignificant and a great distance apart, insensibly increased. The Indians, attracted by the gentle amenity of the good fathers, placed themselves under their protection; and there is no doubt that if the Jesuits, victims to the jealousy of the Spanish viceroys, had not been shamefully plundered and expelled from Mexico, they would have brought around them the majority of the fiercest Indios Bravos, have civilised them, and made them give up their nomadic life.
It is to one of these missions we purpose conducting the reader, a month after the events we have narrated in a preceding work.[1]
The mission of Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles was built on the right bank of the Rio San Pedro, about sixty leagues from Pitic. Nothing can equal the grandeur and originality of its position. Nothing can compare, in wild grandeur and imposing severity, with the majestically terrible landscape which presents itself to the vision, and fills the heart with terror and a melancholy joy, at the sight of the frightful and gloomy rocks which tower over the river like colossal walls and gigantic parapets, apparently formed by some convulsion of nature; while in the midst of this chaos, at the foot of these astounding precipices, past which the river rushes in impetuous cascades, and in a delicious valley covered with verdure, stands the house, commanded on three sides by immense mountains, which raise their distant peaks almost to the heavens.
Alas! this house, formerly so smiling, so animated, so gay and happy—this remote corner of the world, which seemed a counterpart of Eden, where, morning and night, hymns of gratitude, mingling with the cascade, rose to the Omnipotent—this mission is now dead and desolate, the houses are deserted and in ruins, the church roof has fallen in, the grass has invaded the choir. The terrified members of this simple and innocent community, scattered by persecution, sought refuge in the desert, and returned to that savage life from which they were rescued with so much difficulty. Wild beasts dwell in the house of God, and nothing is heard save the voice of solitude murmuring unceasingly through the deserted houses and crumbling walls, which parasitic plants are rapidly invading, and will soon level with the ground, covering them with a winding sheet of verdure.
It was evening. The wind roared hoarsely through the trees. The sky, like a dome of diamond, flashed with those millions of stars which are also worlds; the moon spread around a vague and mysterious light; and the atmosphere, refreshed by a gusty breeze, was embalmed with those desert odours which it is so healthy to respire.
Still the night was somewhat fresh, and three travellers, crouching round a large brasero kindled amid the ruins, seemed to appreciate its kindly warmth. These travellers, on whose hard features the changing flashes of light were reflected, would have supplied a splendid subject for an artist, with their strange costumes, as they were encamped there in the midst of the wild and startling landscape.
A little distance behind the principal group four hobbled horses were munching their provender, while their riders, for their part, were concluding a scanty meal, composed of a slice of venison, a few pieces of tasajo, and maize tortillas, the whole washed down with water slightly dashed with refino to take off its hardness.
These three men were Count Louis, Valentine, and Don Cornelio. Although they ate like true hunters—that is to say, with good appetite, and not losing a mouthful—it was easy to guess that our friends were engaged with serious matters for thought. Their eyes wandered incessantly around, consulting the shadows, and striving to pierce the darkness. At times the hand stopped half way to the mouth—the lump of tasajo remained in suspense: with their left hand they instinctively sought the rifle that lay on the ground near them. They stretched forth their necks, and listened attentively, analysing those thousand nameless noises of the great American deserts, which all have a cause, and are an infallible warning to the man who knows how to understand them.
Still the meal drew to an end. Don Cornelio had seized his jarana; but at a sign from Don Louis he laid it again by his side, wrapped himself in his zarapé, and stretched himself out on the ground. Valentine was in deep reflection. Louis had risen, and, leaning against a wall, looked cautiously out into the desert. A long period elapsed ere a word was exchanged, until Louis seated himself again by the hunter's side.
"'Tis strange," he said.
"What?" Valentine replied abstractedly.
"Curumilla's prolonged absence. He has left us for nearly three hours without telling us the reason,