Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

It was a part of Washington's plan for the autumn campaign, to make an attack upon the city of New York, with the combined French and American forces, the former to approach by the way of Long Island, and the other by crossing Kingsbridge at the head of York, or Manhattan Island. Arnold communicated the details of this plan to Sir Henry Clinton, and proposed that when the assailants approached, a large British force should proceed up the Hudson to the Highlands in a flotilla under Admiral Rodney, when the traitor should surrender West Point and its dependencies, excusing himself with the plea of a weak garrison. The anticipated result was a retreat of Washington toward the Highlands to regain the fortress and save his ample stores and the probable capture of the French army.

Sir Henry Clinton was delighted with the plan, and eagerly sought to carry it out. Hitherto he was not certified of the real name and character of _Gustavus_, although for some months he had suspected him to be General Arnold. Unwilling to proceed further upon uncertainties, he proposed sending an officer to some point near the American lines to have a personal interview with his correspondent. Arnold consented, and insisted that young Andre, now the adjutant-general of the British army, and high in the confidence of Sir Henry Clinton, should be the officer sent. They agreed to meet at Dobb's Ferry, upon the Neutral Ground, some twenty miles above New York. Thither Andre, accompanied by Colonel Robinson, proceeded; but the vigilance of the British water-guard prevented the approach of Arnold, and the conference was deferred.

Sir Henry Clinton, anxious to effect definite arrangements with Arnold, sent the Vulture sloop-of-war up the river, as far as Teller's Point, nearly opposite Haverstraw, with Colonel Robinson on board. That officer, under pretense of making inquiries respecting his confiscated property, communicated with Arnold, who, in an ambiguous answer, informed him that a flag and a boat would be sent to the Vulture on the night of the twentieth, to be used as circumstances might require. This fact was communicated to Clinton, and on the morning of that day, Major Andre, after singing a song and taking wine with some fellow-officers, at Kip's Bay, proceeded by land to Dobb's Ferry, and from thence in a barge to the Vulture. He was instructed not to change his dress, go within the American lines, receive papers, or in any other way act as a spy. It was supposed that Arnold himself would come to the Vulture, and that there the whole plan would be arranged. The wily general was not to be caught, and he chose a meeting place which involved less personal hazard.

About half way between Stony Point and Haverstraw, lived Joshua Hett Smith, a brother of the Tory Chief Justice of New York. To his house Arnold repaired, and employed him to proceed to the Vulture, at night, and bring a gentleman to the western shore of the Hudson. Smith was an active man, of considerable influence in his neighborhood, and is supposed to have been the _dupe_, not the voluntary aid of Arnold in his treasonable preparations. Unable to procure oarsmen, Smith did not proceed to the Vulture until the night of the twenty-first. As soon as the moon went down, he glided silently out of Haverstraw creek, with muffled oars, and at a little past midnight reached the vessel anchored in the middle of the river. It was a serene, starry night, and not a ripple was upon the bosom of the waters. Cautiously he approached the Vulture, and, by proper signal, obtained admission on board. His oarsmen waited but a few minutes, when Smith, accompanied by a British officer, descended into the boat. The latter was dressed in the scarlet uniform of the royal army, but all was covered with a long blue surtout, buttoned to the chin, and a plain cocked hat covered his head. Not a word was spoken as they moved noiselessly toward a deep-shaded estuary at the foot of Long Clove Mountain, a little below Haverstraw. Smith led the officer, in the gloom, to a thicket near by, and there, in a low whisper, introduced John Anderson (the name assumed by Major Andre in his correspondence) to General Arnold, and then retired. The conspirators were left alone. There, in the deep shadows of night, concealed from human cognizance, they discussed their dark plans, and plotted the utter ruin of the patriot cause. There the arch-traitor, eager for the coveted gold of a royal purchaser, higgled with the king's broker about the price of his infamy; there the perjured recusant, satisfied with the _word_ of an honest man (for he dared not accept a written bond), "sold his birth-right for a mess of pottage."

The hour of dawn approached, and their conference was not ended. Smith came, and urged the necessity for haste, for the water-guard would soon be on the alert, and it would be difficult to return to the Vulture. Much was yet to be done, and Andre reluctantly consented to accompany Arnold to Smith's house, nearly four miles distant, and await the darkness of another night to return to the vessel. Expecting a protracted interview, Arnold had brought two horses with him. While it was yet dark they mounted, and as they passed in the rear of Haverstraw, in the dim twilight of earliest dawn, the voice of a sentinel gave Andre the first intimation that he was within the American lines. He perceived the danger, but it was too late to recede. They reached Smith's house before sunrise, and at that moment the boom of a cannon came up from the bosom of the bay. Several discharges quickly succeeded each other, and soon the Vulture, galled by an iron four-pounder upon Teller's Point, weighed anchor, and dropped down the river beyond the vision of the conspirators. Deep inquietude stirred the soul of Andre. He was within the enemy's lines, without flag or pass. If detected, he would be called a spy--a name he hated as much as that of traitor. The ingenious sophistry of Arnold allayed his apprehensions, and in an upper room of Smith's house, the plan of operations was determined, and there Andre passed a day of great solicitude. The plan was simple. Washington had gone to Hartford, to confer with the French officers. It was agreed to consummate the scheme during the absence of the Commander-in-chief, instead of waiting for the uncertain movements of the armies. The garrison at West Point was to be weakened by dispersion, and Clinton was to sail up the river with a strong force, and take possession.

At noon, the whole plan being arranged, Arnold placed in Andre's possession, several papers, explanatory of the condition of West Point and its dependencies. Zealous in the service of his king and country, Andre disobeyed the commands of his general, and received them. At Arnold's suggestion, he placed them in his stockings under his feet, and receiving a pass from the traitor (printed on the next page), waited impatiently for the approach of night.

Fully believing that no obstacle now interposed in the way of success, Arnold prepared for the reception of Rodney's flotilla with a strong force under Clinton. Pretending that it needed repairing, a link from the great iron chain which spanned the Hudson at West Point, was taken out and sent to the smith, and the garrison at Fort Clinton, on the Point, was weakened by scattering the troops in detachments among the several redoubts in the vicinity. Colonel Lamb, who commanded the garrison, wondered at the movement, but did not suspect his chief. So skillfully had Arnold managed all his plans, that no suspicion of his defection was abroad; and Washington held his conference with Rochambeau and Ternay, satisfied that West Point was in safe hands.

When night approached, Smith positively refused to convey Andre back to the Vulture, but offered to accompany him to the borders of the Neutral Ground on the east side of the Hudson. Andre remonstrated in vain. There was no alternative but to remain. He exchanged his uniform for a citizen's dress, and at twilight, mounted on good horses, and accompanied by a negro servant, Smith and Andre crossed King's Ferry (now Verplanck's Point), and turned their faces toward White Plains. Andre was moody, for he felt uneasy. They met with no interruption, until near the little village of Crompond, eight miles from King's Ferry, when they were hailed by a sentinel. Arnold's pass was examined, known to be genuine, and the travelers were about to pass on, when the officer of the post magnified the dangers of the road, and persuaded them to halt for the night. Sleep was a stranger to the eyes of Andre, and at dawn they were in the saddle. When they approached Pine's Bridge, and he was assured that he was upon neutral ground, beyond the American lines, his gloomy taciturnity was exchanged for cheerful garrulity, and he conversed in an almost playful manner upon poetry, the arts, literature, and common topics. A mile above the bridge, Smith handed him a small sum in Continental bills, and they parted, the former to proceed to Arnold's quarters and report his success, the latter to hasten toward New York. Andre, being told that the _Cow-boys_[3] were more numerous on the Tarrytown road, took that direction, contrary to the advice of Smith and others, who directed him to proceed by the way of White Plains. Andre was anxious to be among his friends, and as these marauders were such, he concluded that the Tarrytown road would be the safer for him, for if he fell into their hands, he would be taken to New York, whither he was hastening. This was his fatal mistake.

On the morning when Andre left Pine's Bridge, a little band of seven young volunteers, went out near Tarrytown to watch the movements of the _Cow-boys_ and other depredators. Four of them (John Yorks, John Dean, James Romez, and Abraham William) agreed to tarry upon a hill which commanded an extensive view of the highway, while the remaining three (John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams) were to be concealed in the bushes on the bank of a small stream, near the road. At ten o'clock in the morning, while engaged in playing cards, the young men saw a horseman approach from the direction of Sleepy Hollow. They confronted him, and demanded a knowledge of his business and destination. "I hope, gentlemen, that you belong to our party," said the traveler. "What party?" inquired Williams, who had presented his firelock to his breast. "The lower party" (meaning the British), quickly replied the horseman.

"I am a British officer, out upon urgent business. I hope you will not detain me a minute."

He was ordered to dismount, when he instantly discovered his fatal mistake. "My God!" he exclaimed, half laughing, "we must do anything to get along;" and then showed them Arnold's pass, for the traveler was Major Andre. The young militia men were not as easily satisfied as the sentinel at Crompond. They insisted upon searching him. They made him strip; ripped up the housings of his saddle, and finally ordered him to pull off his boots. He reluctantly obeyed, and beneath his feet were the papers given him by Arnold.

Andre offered his captors tempting bribes of money and merchandise, if they would allow him to pass on, but their patriotism was too dear to be bought with a price. They conducted him to the quarters of Colonel Jameson at North Castle, the nearest post, and delivered him up. That officer, with obtuseness of perception most extraordinary, resolved to send him immediately to General Arnold! Major Tallmadge, with better judgment, boldly expressed his belief that Arnold was a traitor, and finally induced Jameson to send the prisoner to Colonel Sheldon's quarters at North Salem, until more should be known respecting him, for, they had no suspicion of the rank and character of the young man in their custody. Jameson, however, would not suspect the fidelity of his general, and actually sent a letter to inform him that "a Mr. John Anderson" was a prisoner in his hands.

On the morning of the 24th of September, the day fixed upon by the conspirators for the surrender of the fort, Washington returned from Hartford. It was two days earlier than Arnold expected him. The traitor was astounded when a messenger rode up, a little after sunrise, and announced the intention of the Commander-in-chief to breakfast with him. On approaching Arnold's quarters, Washington directed La Fayette and Hamilton, who were with him, to go on and breakfast with Mrs. Arnold, while he turned down a lane to the river to inspect a redoubt upon the bank.

Arnold and his guests were at breakfast when a messenger came in haste with a letter for the general. It was from Jameson, announcing the arrest of Andre, instead of the expected intelligence that the enemy were moving up the river. Agitated, but not sufficiently to excite the special notice of his guests, he arose from the table, hastened to the room of his wife, kissed his sleeping babe, and telling his spouse in hurried words that they must part, perhaps forever, left her in a swoon, mounted the horse of one of his aids standing at the door, dashed across the fields and down a declivity to a narrow pathway on the borders of a morass to a dock built by Colonel Robinson, and throwing himself into his barge, nerved the oarsmen with promises of large rewards of rum and money for swiftness of speed, and was soon sweeping through the Race at Fort Montgomery. The old dock from whence the traitor escaped, is still there, but the Hudson River Railway has spanned the mouth of the swale, and cleft the rocky point, so that little of the original features of the scenery remain.

Washington went over to West Point before going to Arnold's quarters. He was surprised when informed by Lamb that the general had not been at the garrison for two days. He recrossed the river, and when he approached Robinson's house, Hamilton, greatly excited, met him, and revealed the dreadful secret of Arnold's guilt and flight. His guilt was made manifest by the arrival of the papers taken from Andre, and his flight confirmed the dark tale which they unfolded. With these papers came a letter from Andre to Washington, frankly avowing his name and character. "Whom can we trust now?" said the Chief with calmness, while feelings of the deepest sorrow were evidently at work in his bosom, as he laid before La Fayette, Hamilton, and Knox the evidences of treason.

The condition of Mrs. Arnold excited Washington's liveliest sympathy. But one year a mother and not two a bride, the poor young creature had received a blow of the most appalling nature. She raved furiously and mourned piteously, alternately. The tenderest care was bestowed upon her, and she was soon sent in safety to New York, whither her fallen husband had escaped.

Pursuit of the traitor was unavailing. He had four hours the start. The Vulture was yet lying below Teller's Point, awaiting the return of Andre, and to the security of her bulwarks Arnold escaped. She proceeded to New York that evening, and Sir Henry Clinton, informed of the failure of the scheme, was unwilling to hazard an attack upon the Highland fortresses, now that the patriots were thoroughly awake.

The main body of the American army was lying at Tappan, on the west side of the Hudson, near the present terminus of the New York and Erie Railroad. Thither Andre was conveyed, after being brought to West Point, and in a stone house, near the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief, he was strongly guarded. On the twenty-ninth of September a court martial was convened near by, for his trial, and, after a patient investigation, it being proven, and confessed by the prisoner himself, that he was in the American lines (though not voluntarily) without a flag, they gave it as their opinion that he ought to suffer death as a spy. All hearts were alive with sympathy for the condemned, and Washington would gladly have saved his life; but the stern demands of the cruel and uncompromising rules of war, denied the petitions of mercy, and the Commander-in-chief was obliged to sign his death-warrant. He was sentenced to be hung on the afternoon of the first of October.

Andre exhibited no fear of death, and to the last the workings of his genius were displayed. On the morning of the day appointed for his execution, he sketched a likeness of himself with a pen and ink, and conversed cheerfully with those around him upon the pleasures of painting and kindred arts. But the _manner_ of his death disturbed his spirit. He pleaded earnestly to be _shot_ as a soldier, not _hung_ as a spy. But even this poor boon could not be allowed, for the rules of war demanded death by a cord and not by a bullet. His execution was delayed one day in consequence of the intercession of Sir Henry Clinton, and a hope that Arnold might be obtained and righteously suffer in his stead. All was unavailing, and Major Andre, in the bloom of manhood, was hung at Tappan on the second of October, 1780, at the age of twenty-nine years.

The youth, accomplishments, and gentleness of manners of the young soldier, endeared him to all, and his fate was deeply regretted on both sides of the Atlantic. His king caused a mural monument, of elegant device, to be erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey; and in 1831, the Duke of York had his remains removed from Tappan and taken to London, where they now repose beneath his marble memorial, among those of many heroes and poets of old England. A halo of melancholy sweetness surrounds the name and character of the unfortunate youth which increases in glory with the flight of time.

The traitor, though unsuccessful, received ten thousand guineas from the British treasury, and the commission of a brigadier from the king. He served his new master faithfully. With the spirit of a demon he desolated, with fire and sword, the beautiful country near the mouth of the Thames, in Connecticut, almost in sight of the roof which sheltered his infancy; and with augmented ferocity he spread distress and ruin, to the extent of his power, upon the Virginia shores of the Chesapeake, and along the fertile borders of the James and the Appomattox. Hated and despised by his new companions in arms, and insulted and contemned in public places after the war, Arnold became an outcast like Cain, and like Esau he found no place for repentance, though he sought it diligently with tears. He died in obscurity in the British metropolis, in 1801, and who knows the place of his grave?

The captors of Andre were highly applauded by the people, and honored and rewarded by Congress. That body awarded to each a silver medal, having on one side the word FIDELITY, and on the other, VINCIT AMOR PATRAE; "the love of country conquers." They were also allowed each an annual pension of two hundred dollars, during their lives. Public esteem for their services has erected monuments over the remains of two of them. Paulding's mortality sleeps beneath a chaste marble cenotaph in the old St. Peter's church-yard, two miles eastward of Peekskill; and over the dust of Van Wart, in the Greenburgh church-yard, near the banks of the beautiful Nepara, in Westchester county, stands a plain monument of white marble. The former was erected by the corporation of the city of New York; the latter by citizens of Westchester county. No public memorial yet marks the place of rest of David Williams in the church-yard at Livingstonville, in Schoharie county.

The traitor and his victim, the captors, judges, and executioner, have all gone to the spirit-land whither the ken of the historian and the moralist may not follow; and the myriads of hearts which beat with sympathy or indignation, as the sad intelligence of the tragedy at Tappan winged its way over our land, or sped to the abodes of intelligent men in the Old World, are pulseless and forgotten. Charity would counsel tenderly respecting each,

"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his father, and his God."
GRAY.

Yet it is well, occasionally, to lift the vail from past events, though they may be dark and forbidding in aspect, for to the wise and thoughtful they convey lessons of wisdom, and to the foolish and inconsiderate, the wayward and the wicked, they may speak a word of warning in season to curb an evil spirit and promote righteousness.

[Footnote 3: The _Cow-boys_ were a set of people mostly, if not wholly refugees, belonging to the British side, and engaged in plundering cattle near the lines and driving them to New York. The name indicates their vocation. There was another description of banditti called _Skinners_, who lived for the most part within the American lines, and professed attachment to the American cause; but in reality they were more unprincipled, perfidious, and inhuman than the _Cow-boys_ themselves; for these latter exhibited some symptoms of fellow-feeling for their friends, whereas the _Skinners_ committed their depredations equally upon friends and foes.

By a law of the State of New York, every person refusing to take an oath of fidelity to the State, was considered as forfeiting his property. The large territory between the American and British lines, extending nearly thirty miles from north to south, and embracing Westchester county, was populous and highly cultivated. This was the famous Neutral Ground. A person living within that space, who took the oath of fidelity, was sure to be plundered by the _Cow-boys_; and if he did not take it, the _Skinners_ would come down upon him, call him a Tory, and seize his property as confiscated by the State. Thus the execution of the laws was assumed by robbers, and the innocent and guilty were involved in a common ruin.

It is true, the civil authority endeavored to guard against these outrages, as far as it could, by legislative enactments and executive proclamations; but, from the nature of the case, this formidable conspiracy against the rights and claims of humanity could be crushed only by a military arm. The detachments of Continental troops and militia, stationed near the lines, did something to lessen the evil; yet they were not adequate to its suppression, and frequently this force was so feeble as not to afford any barrier against the inroads of the banditti. The _Skinners_ and _Cow-boys_ often leagued together. The former would sell their plunder to the latter, taking in exchange contraband articles from New York. It was not uncommon for the farce of a skirmish to be acted near the American lines, in which the _Skinners_ never failed to come off victorious; and then they would go boldly into the interior with their booty, pretending it had been captured from the enemy while attempting to smuggle it across the lines.--_Sparks_.]

MEMORIES OF MEXICO.

The first action fought by the American army in the valley of Mexico, on the 20th August, 1847, was at Contreras. It was an attack upon a fortified camp, in which lay General Valencia with 6000 Mexicans, composed of the remnant of the army beaten by Taylor, on the hills of Buena Vista. It was styled "The Army of the North;" most of the soldiers composing it being from the northern departments--the hardy miners of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi--and they were esteemed "the flower of the Mexican army."

On the previous day powder enough was burned to have cured the atmosphere for twenty miles around, yet there was nothing done. We held the ground, however, in mud up to our ankles. In this we lay shivering under a cold drizzle until the morning. By daylight we were at it in earnest. During the night two of our best brigades had crept, unperceived, through the clay "barrancas" close up to the rear of the enemy's camp, ready to spring. At daybreak old Riley shouted, "_Forward and give them h-ll!_" and before our foes--not expecting us from that quarter--could bring their artillery to bear upon us, we were in the midst of them. The action lasted just seventeen minutes. At the end of that time we had laid our hands upon thirty of Valencia's cannon, and taken about a thousand prisoners; and had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of them, in their long yellow mantles, disappearing through the fissures of the lava fields, in rapid flight along the road to Mexico. We followed, of course, but as our cavalry had not been able to cross the Pedregal, and the enemy were our superiors in retreat, we were soon distanced. As we came down upon the village of San Angel, the occasional blast of a light infantry bugle, with the "crack--crack--cr-r-r-ack" of our rifles in front, told us that we had still more work to do before entering the halls of the Montezumas. We were, in fact, driving in the light troops of Santa Anna's main army, lying we knew not where, but somewhere between us and the far-famed city.

It is not my intention to give an account of the battle that followed, nor should I have entered into these details of the fight at Contreras, but to put the reader in possession of "situations," and, moreover, to bring to his notice an incident that occurred, during that action, to a friend--the hero of this narrative--whom I will now introduce. I was then a Sub., and my friend, Richard L----, was the captain of my company; young as myself, and full as ardent in pursuit of the red glory of war. We had long known each other, had gone through the campaign together, and, more than once, had stood side by side under the leaden shower. I need not say how a juxtaposition of this kind strengthens the ties of friendship.

We had come out of Resaca and Monterey unscathed. We had passed through Cerro Gordo with "only a scratch." So far we had been fortunate, as I esteemed it. Not so my friend; he wished to get a wound, for the honor of the thing. He was accommodated at Contreras; for the bullet from an escopette had passed through his left arm below the elbow-joint. It appeared to be only a flesh wound; and as his sword-arm was still safe, he disdained to leave the field until the "day was done." Binding the wounded limb with a rag from his shirt, and slinging it in his sash, he headed his company in the pursuit. By ten o'clock we had driven the enemy's skirmishers out of San Angel, and taken possession of the village. Our commander-in-chief was as yet ignorant of the position of the Mexican army; and we halted, to await the necessary reconnoisance.

Notwithstanding the cold of the preceding night, the day had become hot and oppressive. The soldiers, wearied with watching, marching, and the fight, threw themselves down in the dusty streets. Hunger kept many awake, for they had eaten nothing for twenty hours. A few houses were entered, and the _tortillas_ and _tasajo_ drawn forth; but there is but little to be found, at any time, in the larder of a Mexican house; and the jail-like doors of most of them were closely barred. The unglazed windows were open; but the massive iron railings of the "reja" defended them from intrusion. From these railings various flags were suspended--French, German, Spanish, and Portuguese--signifying that the inmates were foreigners in the country, and therefore entitled to respect. Where no excuse for such claim existed, a white banner, the emblem of peace, protruded through the bars; and perhaps this was as much respected as the symbols of neutrality.

It was the season when fashion deserts the Alameda of Mexico, and betakes itself to _monte_, cock-fighting, and intriguing, in the romantic "pueblos" that stud the valley. San Angel is one of these pueblos, and at that moment many of the "familias principales" of the city were domiciled around us. Through the rejas we could catch an occasional glimpse of the inmates in the dark apartments within.

It is said that, with woman, curiosity is stronger than fear. It appeared to be so in this case. When the inhabitants saw that pillage was not intended, beautiful and stylish women showed themselves in the windows and on the "balcons," looking down at us with a timorous yet confiding wonder. This was strange, after the stories of our barbarity, in which they had been so well drilled; but we had become accustomed to the high courage of the Mexican females, and it was a saying among us, that "the women were the best men in the country." Jesting aside, I am satisfied, that had they taken up arms instead of their puny countrymen, we should not have boasted so many easy victories.

Our bivouac lasted about an hour. The reconnoisance having been at length completed, the enemy was discovered in a fortified position around the convent and bridge of Churubusco. Twiggs' division was ordered forward to commence the attack, just as the distant booming of cannon across the lava fields, told us that our right wing, under Worth, had sprung the enemy's left at the hacienda of San Antonio, and was driving it along the great national road. Both wings of our army were beautifully converging to a common focus--the pueblo of Churubusco. The brigade to which I was attached still held the position where it had halted in San Angel. We were to move down to the support of Twiggs' division, as soon as the latter should get fairly engaged. Our place in the line had thrown us in front of a house somewhat retired from the rest, single-storied, and, like most of the others, flat-roofed, with a low parapet around the top. A large door and two windows fronted the street. One of the windows was open, and knotted to the reja was a small white handkerchief embroidered along the borders, and fringed with fine lace. There was something so delicate, yet striking in the appeal, that it at once attracted the attention of L---- and myself. It would have touched the compassion of a Cossack; and _we_ felt at the moment that we would have protected that house against a general's order to pillage.

We had seated ourselves on the edge of the banquette, directly in front of the window. A bottle of wine by some accident had reached us; and as we quaffed its contents, our eyes constantly wandered upon the open reja. We could see no one. All was dark within; but we could not help thinking that the owner of the kerchief--she who had hurriedly displayed that simple emblem of truce--could not be otherwise than an interesting and lovely creature.

At length the drums beat for Twiggs' division to move forward, and, attracted by the noise, a gray-haired old man appeared at the window. With feelings of disappointment, my friend and I turned our glances upon the street, and for some moments watched the horse artillery as it swept past. When our gaze was again directed to the house, the old man had a companion--the object of our instinctive expectation; yet fairer even than our imagination had portrayed.

The features indicated that she was a Mexican, but the complexion was darker than the half-breed, the Aztec blood predominated. The crimson, mantling under the bronze of her cheeks, gave to her countenance that picture-like expression of the mixed races of the Western World. The eye, black, with long fringing lash, and a brow upon which the jetty crescent seemed to have been painted. The nose slightly aquiline, curving at the nostril; while luxuriant hair, in broad plaits, fell far below her waist. As she stood on the sill of the low window, we had a full view of her person--from the satin slipper to the _reboso_ that hung loosely over her forehead. She was plainly dressed in the style of her country. We saw that she was not of the aristocracy, for, even in this remote region, has Paris fashioned the costume of that order. On the other hand, she was above the class of the "poblanas," the demoiselles of the showy "naguas" and naked ankles. She was of the middle rank. For some moments my friend and myself gazed upon the fair apparition in silent wonder.

She stood awhile, looking out upon the street, scanning the strange uniforms that were grouped before her. At length her eye fell upon us; and as she perceived that my comrade was wounded, she turned toward the old man.

"Look, father, a wounded officer! ah, what a sad thing, poor officer."

"Yes, it is a captain, shot through the arm."

"Poor fellow! he is pale--he is weary. I shall give him sweet water, shall I, father?"

"Very well, go, bring it."

The girl disappeared from the window; and in a few moments returned with a glass, containing an amber-colored liquid--the essence of the pine-apple. Making a sign toward L----, the little hand that held the glass was thrust through the bars of the reja. Being nearer, I rose, and taking the glass, handed it to my friend. L---- bowed to the window, and acknowledging his gratitude in the best Spanish he could muster, drank off the _agua dulce_. The glass was returned; and the young girl took her station as before.

We did not enter into conversation, neither L---- nor myself; but I noticed that the incident had made an impression upon my friend. On the other hand, I observed the eyes of the girl, although at intervals wandering away, always return, and rest upon the features of my comrade. L---- was handsome; besides, he bore upon his person the evidence of a higher quality--courage; the quality that, before all others, will win the heart of a woman.

All at once, the features of the girl changed their expression, and she uttered a scream. Turning toward my friend, I saw the blood dripping through the sash. His wound had re-opened.

I threw my arms around him, as several of the soldiers rushed forward; but before we could remove the bandage L---- had swooned.

"May I beseech you to open the door?" said I, addressing the young girl and her father.

"_Si--si, senor_," cried they together, hurrying away from the window.

At that moment the rattle of musketry from Coyoacan, and the roar of field artillery, told us that Twiggs was engaged. The long roll echoed through the streets, and the soldiers were speedily under arms.

I could stay no longer, for I had now to lead the company; and leaving L---- in charge of two of the men, I placed myself at its head. As the "Forward" was given, I heard the great door swing upon its hinges; and looking back as we marched down the street, I saw my friend conducted into the house. I had no fears for his safety, as a regiment was to remain in the village.... In ten minutes after I was upon the field of battle, and a red field it was. Of my own small detachment every second soldier "bit the dust" on the plain of Portales. I escaped unhurt, though my regiment was well peppered by our own artillerists from the _tete de pont_ of Churubusco. In two hours we drove the enemy through the _garita_ of San Antonio de Abad. It was a total rout; and we could have entered the city without firing another shot. We halted, however, before the gates--a fatal halt, that afterward cost us nearly 2000 men, the flower of our little army. But, as I before observed, I am not writing a history of the campaign.

An armistice followed, and gathering our wounded from the fields around Churubusco, the army retired into the villages. The four divisions occupied respectively the pueblos of Tacubaya, San Angel, Mixcoac, and San Augustin de les Cuevas. San Angel was our destination; and the day after the battle my brigade marched back, and established itself in the village.

I was not long in repairing to the house where I had left my friend. I found him suffering from fever, burning fever. In another day he was delirious; and in a week _he had lost his arm_; but the fever left him, and he began to recover. During the fortnight that followed, I made frequent visits; but a far more tender solicitude watched over him. Rafaela was by his couch; and the old man--her father--appeared to take a deep interest in his recovery. These, with the servants, were the only inmates of the house.

The treacherous enemy having broken the armistice, the storming of the Palace-castle of Chapultepec followed soon after. Had we failed in the attempt not one of us would ever have gone out from the valley of Mexico. But we _took the castle_, and our crippled forces entered the captured city of the Montezumas, and planted their banners upon the National Palace. I was not among those who marched in. Three days afterward I was _carried in_ upon a stretcher, with a bullet hole through my thigh, that kept me within doors for a period of three months.

During my invalid hours L---- was my frequent visitor; he had completely recovered his health, but I noticed that a change had come over him, and his former gayety was gone.

Fresh troops arrived in Mexico, and to make room, our regiment, hitherto occupying a garrison in the city, was ordered out to its old quarters at San Angel. This was welcome news for my friend, who would now be near the object of his thoughts. For my own part, although once more on my limbs, I did not desire to return to duty in that quarter; and on various pretexts, I was enabled to lengthen out my "leave" until the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.

Once only I visited San Angel. As I entered the house where L---- lived, I found him seated in the open _patio_, under the shade of the orange trees. Rafaela was beside him, and his only hand was held in both of hers. There was no surprise on the part of either, though I was welcomed cordially by both--by her, as being the friend of the man she loved. Yes, she loved him.

"See," cried L----, rising, and referring to the situation in which I had found them. "All this, my dear H., in spite of my misfortunes!" and he glanced significantly at his armless sleeve. "Who would not love her?"

The treaty of Guadalupe was at length concluded, and we had orders to prepare for the route homeward. The next day I received a visit from L----.

"Henry," said he, "I am in a dilemma."

"Well, major," I replied, for L---- as well as myself had gained a "step." "What is it?"

"You know I am in love, and with whom you know. What am I to do with her?"

"Why, marry her, of course. What else?"

"I dare not."

"Dare not!"

"That is--not now."

"Why not? Resign your commission, and remain here. You know our regiment is to be disbanded; you can not do better."

"Ah! my dear fellow, that is not the thing that hinders me."

"What then?"

"Should I marry her, and remain, our lives would not be safe one moment after the army had marched. Papers containing threats and ribald jests have from time to time been thrust under the door of her house--to the effect that, should she marry 'el official Americano'--so they are worded--both she and her father will be murdered. You know the feeling that is abroad in regard to those who have shown us hospitality."

"Why not take her with you, then?"

"Her father, he would suffer."

"Take him, too."

"That I proposed, but he will not consent. He fears the confiscation of his property, which is considerable. I would not care for that, though my own fortune, as you know, would be small enough to support us. But the old man will go on no terms, and she will not leave him."

The old man's fears in regard to the confiscation were not without good foundation. There was a party in Mexico, while we occupied the city, that had advocated "annexation"--that is, the annexing of the whole country to the United States. This party consisted chiefly of pure Spaniards, "ricos" of the republic, who wanted a government of stability and order. In the houses of these many of our officers visited, receiving those elegant hospitalities that were in general denied us by Mexicans of a more patriotic stamp. Our friends were termed "Ayankeeados," and were hated by the populace. But they were "marked" in still higher quarters. Several members of the government, then sitting at Queretaro--among others a noted minister--had written to their agents in the city to note down all those who, by word or act, might show kindness to the American army. Even those ladies who should present themselves at the theatre were to be among the number of the proscribed.

In addition to the Ayankeeados were many families--perhaps not otherwise predisposed to favor us--who by accident had admitted us within their circle--such accident as that which had opened the house and heart of Rafaela to my friend L----. These, too, were under "compromisa" with the rabble. My comrade's case was undoubtedly what he had termed it--a dilemma.

"You are not disposed to give her up, then?" said I, smiling at my anxious friend, as I put the interrogation.

"I know you are only jesting, Henry. You know me too well for that. No! Rather than give her up, I will stay and risk every thing--even life."

"Come, major," said I, "there will be no need for you to risk any thing, if you will only follow my advice. It is simply this--come home with your regiment; stay a month or two at New Orleans, until the excitement consequent upon our evacuation cools down. Shave off your mustache, put on plain clothes; come back and marry Rafaela."

"It is terrible to think of parting with her. Oh!--"

"That may all be; I doubt it not; but what else can you do?"

"Nothing--nothing. You are right. It is certainly the best--the only plan. I will follow it," and L---- left me.

I saw no more of him for three days, when the brigade to which he belonged entered the city on its road homeward. He had detailed his plans to Rafaela, and bade her for a time farewell.

The other three divisions had already marched. Ours was to form the rear-guard, and that night was to be our last in the city of Mexico. I had retired to bed at an early hour, to prepare for our march on the morrow. I was about falling asleep when a loud knock sounded at my door. I rose and opened it. It was L----. I started as the light showed me his face--it was ghastly. His lips were white, his teeth set, and dark rings appeared around his eyes. The eyes themselves glared in their sockets, lit up by some terrible emotion.

"Come!" cried he, in a hoarse and tremulous voice. "Come with me, Henry, I need you."

"What is it, my dear L----? A quarrel? A duel?"

"No! No! nothing of the sort. Come! come! come! I will show you a sight that will make a wolf of you. Haste! For God's sake, haste!"

I hurried on my clothes.

"Bring your arms!" cried L----, "you may require them."

I buckled on my sword and pistol-belt, and followed hastily into the street. We ran down the Calle Correo toward the Alameda. It was the road to the Convent of San Francisco, where our regiment had quartered for the night. As yet I knew not for what I was going. Could the enemy have attacked us? No--all was quiet. The people were in their beds. What could it be? L---- had not, and would not explain; but to my inquiries, continually cried, "Haste--come on!" We reached the convent, and, hastily passing the guard, made for the quarters occupied by my friend. As we entered the room--a large one--I saw five or six females, with about a dozen men, soldiers and officers. All were excited by some unusual occurrence. The females were Mexicans, and their heads were muffled in their rebosos. Some were weeping aloud, others talking in strains of lamentation. Among them I distinguished the face of my friend's betrothed.

"Dearest Rafaela!" cried L----, throwing his arms around her--"it is my friend. Here, Henry, look here! look at this!"

As he spoke, he raised the reboso, and gently drew back her long black hair. I saw blood upon her cheek and shoulders! I looked more closely. It flowed from her ears.

"Her ears! _O God! they have been cut off!_"

"Ay, ay," cried L----, hoarsely; and dropping the dark tresses, again threw his arms around the girl, and kissed away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks--while uttering expressions of endearment and consolation.

I turned to the other females; they were all similarly mutilated; some of them even worse, for their foreheads, where the U.S. had been freshly burned upon them, were red and swollen. Excepting Rafaela, they were all of the "poblana" class--the laundresses--the mistresses of the soldiers.

The surgeon was in attendance, and in a short time all was done that could be done for wounds like these.

"Come!" cried L----, addressing those around him, "we are wasting time, and that is precious; it is near midnight. The horses will be ready by this, and the rest will be waiting; come, Henry, you will go? You will stand by us?"

"I will, but what do you intend?"

"Do not ask us, my friend, you will see presently."

"Think, my dear L----," said I in a whisper, "do not act rashly."

"Rashly! there is no rashness about me--you know that. A cowardly act, like this, can not be revenged too soon. Revenge! what am I talking of! It is not revenge, but justice. The men who could perpetrate this fiendish deed are not fit to live on the earth, and, by heavens! not one of them shall live by the morning. Ha, dastards! they thought we were gone; they will find their mistake. Mine be the responsibility--mine the revenge. Come, friends! Come!" And so saying, L---- led the way, holding his betrothed by the hand. We all followed out of the room, and into the street.

On reaching the Alameda a group of dark objects was seen among the trees. They were horses and horsemen; there were about thirty of the latter, and enough of the former to mount the party who were with L----. I saw from their size that the horses were of our own troops, with dragoon saddles. In the hurry L---- had not thought of saddles for our female companions, but the oversight was of no consequence. _Their_ habitual mode of riding was _a la Duchess de Berri_, and in this way they mounted. Before summoning me, L---- had organized his band--they were picked men. In the dim light I could see dragoon and infantry uniforms, men in plain clothes, followers of the army, gamblers, teamsters, Texans, desperadoes, ready for just such an adventure. Here and there I could distinguish the long-tailed frock--the undress of the officer. The band in all mustered more than forty men.

We rode quietly through the streets, and, issuing from the gate of Nino Perdido, took the road for San Angel. As we proceeded onward, I gathered a more minute account of what had transpired at the village. As soon as our division had evacuated, a mob of thirty or forty ruffians had proceeded to the houses of those whom they termed "Ayankeeados," and glutted their cowardly vengeance on their unfortunate victims. Some of these had been actually killed in attempting to resist; others had escaped to the Pedregal which runs close to the village; while a few--Rafaela among the number--after submitting to a terrible atrocity, had fled to the city for protection.

On hearing the details of these horrid scenes, I no longer felt a repugnance in accompanying my friend. I felt as he did, that men capable of such deeds were "not fit to live," and we were proceeding to execute a sentence that was just though illegal. It was not our intention to punish all; we could not have accomplished this, had we so willed it. By the testimony of the girls, there were five or six who had been the promoters and ringleaders of the whole business. These were well known to one or other of the victims, as in most instances it had been some old grudge for which they had been singled out as objects of this cowardly vengeance. In Rafaela's case it was a ruffian who had once aspired to her hand, and been rejected. Jealousy had moved the fiend to his terrible revenge.

It is three leagues from Mexico to San Angel. The road runs through meadows and fields of magueys. Except the lone _pulqueria_, at the corner where a cross-path leads to the hacienda of Narvarte, there is not a house before reaching the bridge of Coyoacan. Here there is a cluster of buildings--"fabricas"--that, during the stay of our army, had been occupied by a regiment. Before arriving at this point we saw no one; and here only people who, waked from their sleep by the tread of our horses, had not the curiosity to follow us.

San Angel is a mile further up the hill. Before entering the village we divided into five parties, each to be guided by one of the girls. L----'s vengeance was especially directed toward the _ci-devant_ lover of his betrothed. She herself, knowing his residence, was to be our guide.

Proceeding through narrow lanes, we arrived in a suburb of the village, and halted before a house of rather stylish appearance. We had dismounted outside the town, leaving our horses in charge of a guard. It was very dark, and we clustered around the door. One knocked--a voice was heard from within--Rafaela recognized it as that of the ruffian himself. The knock was repeated, and one of the party who spoke the language perfectly, called out:

"Open the door! Open, Don Pedro!"

"Who is it?" asked the voice.

"_Yo_," (I) was the simple reply.

This is generally sufficient to open the door of a Mexican house, and Don Pedro was heard within, moving toward the "Saguan."

The next moment the great door swung back on its hinges, and the ruffian was dragged forth. He was a swarthy, fierce-looking fellow--from what I could see in the dim light--and made a desperate resistance, but he was in the hands of men who soon overpowered and bound him. We did not delay a moment, but hurried back to the place where we had left our horses. As we passed through the streets, men and women were running from house to house, and we heard voices and shots in the distance. On reaching our rendezvous, we found our comrades, all of whom had succeeded in making their capture.

There was no time to be lost; there might be troops in the village--though we saw none--but whether or not, there were "leperos" enough to assail us. We did not give them time to muster. Mounting ourselves and our prisoners we rode off at a rapid pace, and were soon beyond the danger of pursuit.

Those who have passed through the gate of Nino Perdido will remember that the road leading to San Angel runs, for nearly a mile, in a straight line, and that, for this distance, it is lined on both sides with a double row of large old trees. It is one of the drives (_paseos_) of Mexico. Where the trees end, the road bends slightly to the south. At this point a cross road strikes off to the pueblito of Piedad, and at the crossing there is a small house, or rather a temple, where the pious wayfarer kneels in his dusty devotions. This little temple, the residence of a hermitical monk, was uninhabited during our occupation of the valley, and, in the actions that resulted in the capture of the city, it had come in for more than its share of hard knocks. A battery had been thrown up beside it, and the counter-battery had bored the walls of the temple with round shot. I never passed this solitary building without admiring its situation. There was no house nearer it than the aforementioned "tinacal" of Narvarte, or the city itself. It stood in the midst of swampy meadows, bordered by broad plats of the green maguey, and this isolation, together with the huge old trees that shadowed and sang over it, gave the spot an air of romantic loneliness.

On arriving under the shelter of the trees, and in front of the lone temple, our party halted by order of their leader. Several of the troopers dismounted, and the prisoners were taken down from their horses. I saw men uncoiling ropes that had hung from their saddle-bows, and I shuddered to think of the use that was about to be made of them.