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- Author: Mayne Reid
Book online «The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid (best free e book reader txt) 📖». Author Mayne Reid
“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”
“Why?—how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”
“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”
The last sentence I muttered to myself.
“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.
“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”
I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.
“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.
Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.
“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.
The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.
“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”
“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”
I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.
“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.
“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”
“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”
“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”
“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”
“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”
“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs—so—cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”
I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper:—
“Dear Colonel,
“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well—if it gets abroad...
“Yours,
“H.H.”
As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear—
“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul—privately, do you hear?”
Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send a private party to my rescue.
“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.
“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”
The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.
For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.
Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.
They now perceived the ruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.
Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.
We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense—of terrible suspense—for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:
“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”
It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.
Note. A motte is an eminence.
The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.
They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour’s time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.
Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry.
Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.
“Splendidly done!” exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. “One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would—”
“Ha! what—?” shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods.
I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at the débouchement of the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.
Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:
“Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones!” (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)
Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.
“It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we’ll have it now!”
“What did they say?”
“Look for yourself—well?”
“A brass piece, as I live!—a six-pound carronade!”
“We are fighting the guerilla (Note 1) of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now.”
“What is to be done?” asked my companion.
“Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better.”
I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound the assembly.
In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral.
“My brave comrades!” cried I, “they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me—if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy.”
A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:
“But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try.”
Another cheer rang along the line.
“Great heaven, Captain! it’s terrible!” whispered the major.
“What is terrible?” I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward.
“Oh! this—this business—such a fix to be—”
“Major! remember you are a soldier.”
“Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced.”
“Never fear,” said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; “you’ll drink wine at Hewlett’s in a month. Get behind this log—it’s the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade.”
“Do you think, Captain, it will stop a shot?”
“Ay—from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!”
The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy’s artillerists.
At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.
“Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?”
“How am I to prevent them?” I asked, with some surprise.
“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”
“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”
“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”
I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.
“It’s a zündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”
“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.
“This hyur’s the major’s gun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”
It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun—then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.
“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.
“It is.”
“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.
“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.
“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.
“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.
“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”
“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”
Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.
“Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.
As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.
The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.
“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.
In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.
“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”
During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge.
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