Part 9

It was the double detonation of their rifles that had first given the surprise to the salteadores--at the same time, as had been preconcerted, it acted as a signal to the rangers to charge forward into the place.

The Jarocha's presence among the bandits has been already explained. My conjecture was correct. On the way between Cerro Gordo and the village of Rio del Plan, she had lingered behind the _cortege_ that accompanied her wounded brother. At a turn on the road, some half-dozen of the ruffians of Rayas' band had rushed out of an ambuscade and seized hold of her. By stifling her cries, they had succeeded in conveying her off, even without alarming the escort of Jarochos.

All this chapter of strange incidents occurred within the short space of twenty-four hours: for before a second sun had set, I was once more at the head of my troop, _en route_ for Jalapa; while the beautiful Jarocha, with her honour still intact, but her heart, as I hoped, sweetly affected towards her preserver, was on her way, this time with a safer escort, to her native _rancheria_.

We did not part without a mutual promise to meet again. Need I say, that the promise was kept.

END OF THE GUERILLA CHIEF.

Story 2, Chapter I.

DESPARD, THE SPORTSMAN.

A CITY OF DUELLISTS.

Among the cities of America, New Orleans enjoys a special reputation. The important position it holds as the key to the great valley of the Mississippi, of whose commerce it is the natural _entrepot_ as well as _decharge_--its late rapid growth and aggrandisement--all combine to render the "Crescent City" one of the most interesting places in the world, and by far the most interesting in the United States.

A variety of other circumstances have contributed to invest New Orleans with a peculiar character in the eyes of the American people. The romantic history of its early settlement--the sub-tropical stamp of its vegetation, and the truly tropical character of its climate--the repeated changing of its early owners; the influx and commingling of the most varied and opposite nationalities; and the _bizarrerie_ of manners and customs resulting therefrom, could not otherwise than produce a community of a peculiar kind.

And such has been the result. Go where you will throughout the Atlantic states, or even through the states of the West, you will find a certain sentiment of interest attached to the name of the "Crescent City;" and no one talks of it with indifference. The young Kentuckian, who has not yet been "down the river," looks forward with pleasant anticipation to the hour, when he may indulge in a visit to that place of infinite luxury and pleasure--the Mecca of the Western world.

The growth of New Orleans has been rapid, almost beyond parallel--that is, dating from the day it became a republican city. Up to that time its history is scarcely worth recording.

Sixty years have witnessed its increase from a village of 10,000--of little trade and less importance--to a grand commercial city, numbering a population of 200,000 souls. And this in the teeth of a pestilential epidemic, that annually robs it of its thousands of inhabitants.

But for the drawback of climate, New Orleans would, ere this, have rivalled New York; but it looks forward to a still grander future. Its people believe it destined to become the metropolis of the world; and in view of its peculiar position, there is no great presumption in the prophecy.

New Orleans is not looked upon as a provincial city--it never was one. It is a true metropolis, and ever has been, from the time when it was the head-quarters and commercial depot of the gulf pirates, to the present hour.

Its manners and customs are its own; its fashions are original, or, if borrowed, it is from the Boulevards, not from Broadway. The latest _coiffure_ of a Parisian belle, the cut of a coat, or the shape of a hat, will make its appearance upon the streets of New Orleans, earlier than on those of New York--notwithstanding the advantage which the latter has in Atlantic steamers: and, what is more, the coat and hat of the New Orleanois will be of better fabric, and costlier materials, than that of the New Yorker. The Creole cares little for expense: he clothes himself in the best--the finest linen that loom can produce; the finest cloth that can be fabricated. Hats are worn costing twenty-five dollars apiece; and the bills of a tailor of the Rue Royale would astonish even a customer of Stultz. I have myself some recollection of a twelve guinea coat, made me by one of these Transatlantic artists; but I remember also that _it was a coat_.

New Orleans, then, may fairly claim to be considered a metropolis; and, among its many titles there is one which it enjoys _par excellence_, that is, in being the head-quarters of the _duello_. In no other part of America, nor haply in the world either, are there so many personal encounters--nowhere is the sword so often drawn, or the pistol aimed, in single combat, as among the fiery spirits of the "Crescent City." Scarcely a week passes without an "affair;" and too often, through the sombre forest of Pontchartrain, borne upon the still morning air, may be heard the quick responsive detonations that betoken a hostile meeting-- perhaps the last moments of some noble but misguided youth.

I have said that nearly every week witnesses such a scene--I am writing of the present. Were I to speak of the past, I should have to make a slight alteration in my phraseology. Were I to use the phrase, "nearly every day," it would not invalidate the truth of my assertion; and that of a period not yet twenty years gone by.

At that time a duel, or a street fight--one or the other--was a diurnal occurrence: and the notoriety of either ended almost with the hour in which it came off.

It was difficult for a man of spirit to keep his hand clear of these embroglios; and even elderly respectable men--men, married and with grown-up families--were not exempted from duelling, but were expected to turn out and fight, if but the slightest insult were offered them.

Of course a stranger, ignorant of the customs of the place, and used to a society where a little liberal "larking" was allowed, would there soon be cured of his propensity for practical jokes.

But even a sober-minded individual could not always steer himself so as to escape an adventure. For myself, without being at all of a pugnacious disposition, I came very nigh tumbling into an "affair" within twenty-four hours after my first landing in New Orleans; and a friend, who was my companion, actually _did_ take the field.

The circumstance is scarcely worth relating--and, perhaps, it would be better, both for my friend and myself if it were left untold.

But there is a dramatic necessity in the revelation. The incident introduced me to the principal characters of the little drama I have essayed to set forth; and the circumstances of this introduction--odd though they were--are required to elucidate the "situation."

I love the sea, but hate sea-travelling. I never "go down to it in ships" but with great reluctance, and from sheer necessity. My fellow-voyager felt exactly as I did--both of us were alike weary of the sea. What was our joy, then, when, after a voyage ranging nearly from pole to equator--after being "cabined, cribbed, and confined" for a period of three months--buffeted by billows, and broiled amid long-continued calms--we beheld the promised land around the mouths of the mighty Mississippi!

The dove that escaped from the Ark was not more eager to set its claws upon a branch, than we to plant our feet upon _terra firma_.

The treeless waste did not terrify us. Swamp as it was, and is, we should have preferred landing in its midst to staying longer aboard, had a boat been at our service.

As there was none, we were compelled to endure the tedious up-stream navigation of one hundred miles, before our eyes finally rested upon the shining cupola of the Saint Charles.

Then we could endure the ship no longer; and our importunities having produced their effects upon the kindly old skipper, two stout tars were ordered into the gig, and myself and companion were rapidly "shot" upon the bank.

It is not easy to describe the pleasurable sensations one has at such a moment; but if you can fancy how a bird might feel on escaping from its cage, you may have a very good idea of how we felt on getting clear of our ship.

We were still several miles below New Orleans; but a wide road wended in the direction of the city, running along the crest of a great embankment, known as the "Levee," and taking this road for our guide, we started forward towards the town.

Story 2, Chapter II.

SCENE IN A DRINKING SALOON.

We passed plantations of sugar-cane, and admired the houses in which their owners dwelt--handsome villas, embowered amid orange groves, and shaded with Persian lilacs and magnolias.

We might have entertained the desire to enter one or other of these luxuriant retreats, but, under the circumstances, there was neither hope nor prospect, and we continued on.

As we advanced up the road, other houses were encountered--some of a less inhospitable character. These were _cabarets_ and _cafes_, that, with their coloured bottles and sparkling glasses, their open fronts and cool shaded corridors, were too tempting to be passed.

There was a sweetness about these novel potations of "claret sangarees" and "juleps," fragrant with the smell of mint and pines--an attractive aroma--that could not be repelled, especially by one escaping from the stench of raw rum and ship's bilge water.

Neither my companion nor I had the strength to resist their seductive influence; and, giving way to it, we called at more than one _cabaret_, and tasted of more than one strange mixture. In fine, we became merry.

The sun was already low when we landed; and before we had entered the suburbs of the city, his disc had disappeared behind the dark belt of cypress forest that bounds the western horizon.

The street lamps were alight, glimmering but dimly, and at long intervals from each other; but a little afterwards a light glistened in our eyes more brilliant and attractive.

Through a large open folding-door was disclosed the interior of one of those magnificent drinking "saloons," for which the "Crescent City" is so celebrated. The sheen of a thousand sparkling objects--of glasses, bottles, and mirrors ranged around the walls--produced an effect gorgeous and dazzling. To our eyes it appeared the interior of an enchanted palace--a cave of Aladdin.

We were just in the mood to explore it; and, without further ado, we stepped across the threshold; and approaching the "bar," over a snow-white sanded floor, we demanded a brace of fresh juleps.

What followed I do not pretend to detail, with any degree of exactness. I have a confused remembrance of drinking in the midst of a crowd of men--most of them bearded, and of foreign aspect. The language was that of Babel, in which French predominated; and the varied costumes betokened a miscellaneous convention of different trades and professions. Numbers of them had the "cut" and air of sea-faring men-- skippers of merchant vessels--while others were landsmen, traders, or small planters; and not a few were richly and fashionably dressed as gentlemen--real or counterfeit, I could not tell which.

My companion--a jolly young Hibernian--like myself, just escaped from the cloisters of _Alma Mater_, soon got _en rapport_ with these strangers. Hospitable fellows they appeared; and in the twinkling of an eye we were drinking and clinking glasses, as if we had fallen among a batch of old friends or playmates!

There was one individual who attracted my notice. This may have arisen partly from the fact that he was more assiduous in his attentions to us than any of the rest; but there was also something distinctive in the style of the man.

He was a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, but with all the _ton_ and air of a person of thirty--a precocity to be attributed partly to clime, and partly to the habitudes of New Orleans life. He was of medium size; with regular features, well and sharply outlined; his complexion was brunette, with an olive tinge; and his hair black, luxuriant, and wavy. His moustaches were dark and well defined, slightly curling at the tips. He was handsome, until you met the glance of his eye. In that there was something repellent; though why, it would be difficult to say. The expression was cold and animal. A slight scar along the prominence of his cheek was noticeable; and might have been received in an encounter with rapiers, or from the blade of a knife.

This young man was elegantly attired. His dress consisted of a claret-coloured dress-coat, of finest cloth, with gilt buttons, and satin-lined skirts--a vest of spotless _Marseilles_--black inexpressibles--white linen _bootees_--and a Paris hat. A shirt ruffled with finest cambric, both at the bosom and sleeves, completed his costume.

To-day, and in the streets of London, this would appear the costume of a snob. Not so there and then. The dress described, with slight variations as to cut and colour, was the usual morning habit of a New Orleans gentleman--that is, his winter habit. In summer, white linen, or "nankeen" upon his body, and the costly "Panama" on his head.

I have been particular in describing this young fellow, as I afterwards ascertained that he was the type of a class which at that time abounded in New Orleans--most of them of French or Spanish origin--the descendants of the ruined planters of Haiti; or a later importation--the sons of the refugees whom revolution had expelled from Mexico and South America.

Of these the "Crescent City" contained a legion--most of them being without visible means--too lazy to work, too proud to beg--dashing adventurers, who, in elegant attire, appeared around the tables of "Craps" and "Kino;" in the grand hotels and exchanges; at the public balls; and not unfrequently in the best private company--for, at this time, the "society" of the "Crescent City" was far from being scrupulous or exacting. So long as a gentleman's cloth and cambric were _en regle_, no one speculated as to whether his tailor was contented, or his _blanchisseuse_ had given him a discharge for her little account.

The New Orleanois pride themselves on minding their own affairs; and indeed there is some justice in their claim. Moreover, the role of the meddler is not without danger among these people; and even the half-proscribed adventurers of whom I have spoken, though not disdaining to live by _cards_, were ever ready to exchange one with the man who would cast the slightest slur upon their respectability.

Of just such a "kidney" was the individual we had met; though, of course, at that first interview, I was not aware of it. I was then little skilled in reading character from the physiognomy, and yet I remember that the glance of this young fellow, notwithstanding his polite attentions, produced an unpleasant impression upon me; and some instinct whispered to me that, despite his elegant attire and fine bearing, our new acquaintance _was not exactly a gentleman_.

My companion seemed more pleased with him than I was. I confess, however, that he had drunk deeper, and was far less capable of forming a judgment. As I turned away to converse with another of the strangers, I noticed the two--the Hibernian and the Frenchman--standing close together, champagne glasses in hand, and _hobnobbing_ in the most fraternal manner.

Ten minutes might have elapsed before I faced round again. When I did so, it was in consequence of some loud words that were uttered behind me, and in which I recognised the voice of my friend, speaking in an angry and excited tone. The words were:--

"Yes, sir! it's gone--and, by Jaysus, _you_ took it!"

"Pardon, Monsieur!"

"Pardon, indeed!--you've got my watch--you've _stolen it_, sir!"

Almost simultaneously with this unexpected accusation, I heard a loud, fierce "_sacr-r-re_" from the Frenchman, followed instantly by a sharp metallic click, as of a pistol being cocked; and as soon as I could get my eyes fairly upon the disputing parties, I beheld a somewhat frightful _tableau_.

My friend was standing close to the bar, pointing with one hand to the broken guard of his watch, which dangled loosely over the lapels of his waistcoat. His face was towards me, and from his gestures, as well as from the words he had uttered, I could see that some one had made free with his chronometer, and that he believed the thief to be the _elegant_ already described.

The latter was between me and the Hibernian, and, as he stood facing his accuser, I could as yet see only his back.

But the suspicious "click" I had heard, caused me to step hastily to one side; and this brought me in sight of the ugly weapon poised in the fellow's hand, with its muzzle pointed directly at the head of my fellow-voyager, who, seemingly taken by surprise, was making no effort to get out of the way!

All this had passed within a second of time.

Impelled by a sort of instinct, I sprang forward and clutched the pistol around the lock.

Whether I saved the life of my friend by so doing, I cannot say; but the shot was not delivered; and in the subsequent struggle between myself and the stranger, for possession of the pistol, the cap was wrenched off, and the weapon remained in my hands.

Seeing it was harmless, I returned it to its owner, with a word of caution to him not to be so ready in drawing such dangerous weapons in the middle of a crowd.

"_Sacre_!" shouted he, addressing himself more particularly to my fellow-voyager; "you shall repent this insult--_sacr-r-re_!"

"Insult, indeed!" stammered out the Hibernian--whom, as he would not desire his real name to be known, I shall call Casey. "I repeat it, then, my fine fellow! My watch is gone--it was taken from my fob here: you see _this_, gentlemen?" and Casey exhibited to the crowd the wrenched swivel. "It was he who did it: I repeat that he is the thief!"

The Frenchman fairly foamed with rage at this fresh accusation; while, by his gestures, he appeared as if desirous of recapping the pistol.

I watched him closely, however, to prevent such a movement, as I knew that Casey was in no condition to defend himself.

At the same time I endeavoured, along with several others, to bring the affair to an explanation, and, if possible, to a pacific termination.

Story 2, Chapter III.

A GENERAL SEARCH ALL ROUND.

My first belief was that Casey was labouring under an erroneous impression. That some one had robbed him of his watch was clear enough; but there were several persons around him--some of them far more suspicious-looking characters than the accused.

Moreover, the elegant style of the man, and the indignant warmth he had displayed, seemed, to some extent, to attest his innocence.

My belief, then, was that Casey had pitched upon the wrong man; and I appealed to him to withdraw the charge, and acknowledge his error.

To my surprise he would do neither the one nor the other; and, notwithstanding the half-maudlin state he was in, there was an earnestness in his manner, and an unwavering pertinacity in his accusation, that led me to think he was not acting upon mere suspicion, but had _seen something_.

The noise and confusion, however, for the time prevented any explanation from being heard upon either side.

A voice arose above the din, calling out for the doors to be closed.

This was followed by a proposal that every one present should submit to be searched.

"Let there be a general search all round!" demanded several voices.

I recognised the man who was foremost in this demand--it was the mate of our own ship, who had dropped in along with several old sea-wolves like himself--for the vessel had been warped up, and was now lying at an adjacent wharf.

"Yes," responded several voices; "a search, a search! let us see who is the thief!"

No one objected--no one could--for each person present had a personal interest in the result; and, as no one was likely now to go out, the shutting of the doors was ruled as unnecessary.

Two men were immediately chosen as "searchers"--one of whom was our mate himself--the other the keeper of the saloon; and, without loss of time, the search proceeded.

It was altogether an odd spectacle, to see the two inquisitors pass from individual to individual--stopping before each one in turn, handling him about the breast and back, and stripping him down the arms, legs, and thighs, as if they were a brace of electro-biologists, putting the whole company into a mesmeric slumber.

There was a good deal of merriment, and now and then loud bursts of laughter, as some character well known to the company interrupted the silence with a _jeu d'esprit_. For all this, there was a certain solemnity about the proceeding--a sort of painful anticipation that some one would prove the criminal.

During all this time the accused maintained a moody silence--addressing only a short phrase or two to some of his own friends, who had clustered around him. His look betokened confidence; and but for a side-whisper which I had heard from Casey, I should certainly have continued under the impression that the gentleman was innocent. This whisper, however, staggered my faith: for it was a simple and earnest declaration that he, Casey, had seen the watch in the fellow's hand.

"Surely you must be mistaken--it might have been some other hand?"

"Not a bit of it!--I noticed the ruffles as the watch disappeared under them."

"Remember, Casey, you're not very clear-sighted at this moment: think what you've been taking--"

"Bah! I'm not blind for all that; and I tell you, the loss of my twenty guinea repeater has made me as sober as a judge, my boy. I hope, however, it is not gone yet--we'll soon see."

"You'll never see your watch again," said I. "The fellow hasn't got it--I can tell by his looks."

My conjecture proved correct. The young Frenchman was searched in common with the others. He made no objection--he could make none--and, to do the old sea-wolf justice, he performed his duty with elaborate exactness. He was no lover of Creole dandyism; and I verily believe he would have chuckled with delight, to have found the stolen property on the person of the exquisite.

It was not so to be, however: the watch was not there, and the Frenchman smiled triumphantly at the termination of the search.

Others were now examined, until all had had their turn. No watch!

All present were declared innocent men--the watch was not in the room!

This result had been prophesied long before, and I expected it myself. It was easily explained. Beyond doubt Casey had lost his watch, by a thief, and inside the saloon; but several persons had been observed to go out about the time he discovered his loss, or rather at the moment when he declared the accusation. One of these must have been the thief--that was the verdict of the company. More likely one of them had been the _receiver_.

Casey was a little crest-fallen, and the regards of the company were not favourable to him. This, however, only referred to the Creoles and Frenchmen. The honest sea-faring fellows rather sympathised with him. They saw he had sustained a loss; and they were well enough acquainted with New Orleans life, to know that the man who did the deed was probably still in the room.

Casey obstinately clung to his original statement; but of course no longer urged it publicly--only _sotto voce_ to our mate, and one or two others, who, with myself, were counselling him to apologise.

Our whispering conversation was interrupted by the approach of the young Frenchman. There was a certain resolve in his look, that bespoke some determination--evidently the affair was not over.

As he drew near, way was made for him, and he stood confronting Casey.