 | CHAPTER V.
THE NIGHT LANDING. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
THE NIGHT LANDING.
Without waiting to receive their charge, the creoles
instantly collected their party, which had greatly
diminished in the fight, and, surrounding their wounded
up the square towards the Cathedral. In the deep
shadow of its tower stood a group of horses saddled
and bridled, on which they threw themselves, still
bearing their leader, and, galloping through the town,
were soon lost to the eye and ear; while those partisans
among the populace who had lingered behind to
witness the conflict precipitately fled through the narrow
streets, leaving the advancing Spaniards, who
numbered about one hundred men, to take undisputed
possession of the Plaza. It was with an exclamation
of surprise and horror that the Spanish leader beheld,
when he reached the fountain, the bodies of the halberdiers
and creoles strewn about, clinching each other
in the hostile embrace of death, showing how warmly,
and at what expense of life, the sanguinary contest had
been maintained by both parties.
“Here hath been massacre most foul!” he cried, as
the ghastly forms of the slaughtered were exhibited to
his eyes by the clear moonlight of the moon, which
shone almost with the brightness of day upon the
square; “not one remaineth! Sancta Maria, save
us! If there lieth not Don Garcilaso, with his back
against the marble where he hath fallen! Lift him,
and see if he lives! By the cross of St. Andrew, this
night's work hath hung half Orleans by the neck ere
sunset to-morrow!”
“There is life in him, signor,” answered one of the
soldiers, “but he hath lost much blood.”
“Bear him to the brigantine, that he may presently
have the benefit of the skill of the chirurgeon. There,
too, glitter the keys, for which, doubtless, he hath been
assailed. Hand them hither, that I may take them to
Ramarez, for they betoken the city's surrender. Don
Henrique is missing too! Turn over every body on
the square! if he be among them, the bourgeois of Orleans
had best let in the river through their dikes, and
die of honest suffocation, for they are sure to die, every
mother's son of them, by the gallows' rope else. Osma
will roar like a lion when he heareth this!”
After a long and rigorous search and inspection of
the slain, the Spanish captain was compelled to believe
that the younger cavalier, in whom such extraordinary
interest had been manifested, had by some means escaped
the fate of his party, and would, ere long, reappear
in safety.
“He hath met with some fair creole that hath lured
him from the fray,” he said to one of his lieutenants;
“for the youth liketh the glance of beauty's eye every
jot as well as the flash of the foeman's steel. He
doubtless hath done service enough for Mars in this
broil, and now hath listed in that of Cupid. Yet he must
not be left to seek romantic adventures alone in this
hostile city, lest he fall by the knife of some assassin.
We must despatch parties for his safety along the different
streets. I would the count had come to land;
for, as matters are, it were expedient to take possession
of the city at once.
He had scarcely spoken, when the roar of cannon
shook the ground on which they stood, and broadside
after broadside thundered over the city from the Spanish
ships.
“It is the signal of debarking; Ramarez hath decided
on the very step. Now the saints intercede for
these bourgeois. If Ramarez do not fire their city, and
cast everything into the flames of it, the priest never
christened me Martin Gusman!”
Amid the thunder of artillery, the roar of which was
redoubled as it rolled along the night air, a flotilla
of boats, swept by a hundred sparkling oars, left the
fleet, and approached the town with a swift but stately
movement. As it came nearer, there were distinctly
visible on the foremost barges the forms of caparisoned
steeds shining with steel and silver; and standing
beside each, with foot in stirrup, was a horseman in
steel helmet and cuirass. On the stem of the head-most
barge stood three cavaliers in glittering armour,
one of whom, distinguished less by his height than his
haughty carriage, wore a dazzling helm almost buried
in a cloud of sable feathers, while near him, a gigantic
sable in colour than his plumes. Beside him, with a
hand lightly laid upon the mane of a snow-white Arabian,
the bridle of which she held, was a beautiful female,
clad in green Turkish trousers, an azure vest
broidered with gold, and a light polished cap of steel
upon her head, shaded by a tuft of ostrich plumes not
less snowy than her steed. A golden belt that clasped
her slight waist contained a pair of pistols, and by her
side, in a sheath of fine gold, hung a rapier, the hilt of
which was studded with blazing diamonds.
When the barge touched the shore, she and the cavalier
sprung upon the backs of their chargers, and together
leaped to the land. They were instantly followed
by the other cavaliers and the Moor, who took
his place on one side of the female. In a moment afterward,
bounding from the other barges as they successively
touched the land, fifty horsemen were at their
backs.
“Forward!” cried the chief, pointing with his sword
in the direction of the fountain, which glittered in the
midst of the Plaza like a pile of snow.
Like a cloud of war rolling over the shaking earth,
the horsemen followed their fiery leader, and instantly
were on the scene of the late affray.
“What is this that hath been done, Gusman?” he
demanded, reining up near the Spanish captain, who
stood with his men among the slain.
“It seems, signor, that Don Louis obtained the keys
of the city by some means, and that, in bearing them
away, he hath been desperately set upon. I found
them here by his body.”
“Nay, he is not slain?” said the Spaniard, sternly.
“Life hath weak hold on him, signor. He hath
been hard beset! As for the fourteen men-at-arms of
your own body-guard, here lie all that remains of them.”
“But the—”
“Don Henrique is not among the slain,” said the
captain, anticipating the question of the cavalier.
“Hath search been made for him?”
“Most strict. He hath not fallen, or he would be
found among them. No one would bear off a dead
body.”
“But they might a wounded! Perchance they have
taken him prisoner.”
“Nay, my lord, I think he hath become prisoner to
beauty!”
“By the rood, I believe thou hast guessed it, shrewd
Gusman; for report hath it, that there is much room
for romance and adventure in this fair city; and the
gallant hath a temper that way, like the father who
begat him! We must not let him come to harm, if in
truth he do live, of which I have misgivings. Men
who would make such thorough work as I see around
me are not likely to let even one escape.”
“I think, sire,” said the young girl who rode at his
side, and who was very beautiful, “he hath been taken
prisoner, or worse hath happened to him. I know
well Don Henrique would not have deserted brave
Garcilaso when danger assailed him, though every
bright eye in Christendom were the recompense of his
treachery.”
“Not to mention thine own, Lil! But hist, girl!
your zeal hath put a bold word into your mouth,” said
the Count of Osma, reprovingly; “yet I think with
thee that he hath had foul treatment. Ride and marshal
the troops as they land, Montejo,” he added, to
the cavalier on his right; “and you, fiery De Leon,
detach from them parties of thirty men each, to penetrate
the town and occupy the guardhouses. Gusman,
I leave you to turn the cannon of yonder battery, and
plant them at the head of each outlet, so that, if the
bourgeois, who seem to be quiet enough now, are disposed
to resistance, we can sweep them from their
streets. By the honour of a Spanish knight I will unfold
in the glory of this moonlight the standard of
Spain, and the morning sun shall see it waving from
every tower.”
The aidesdecamp lifted their richly-laced hats and
spurred away to obey the order, while Don Garcia,
of the hall of council, and the Cathedral, with its massive
towers, flinging their black shadows half across the
Plaza. The maiden, whose eye followed his, suddenly
cried out,
“Ha, signors! that is not a cloud in the sky!”
“It is the flag of France!” cried the cavalier, discerning,
as the wind turned it broadly to the moon, the
ensign of France still waving on the summit of a tall
flagstaff in front of the hall of council; for no citizen,
however favourable he might be to the submission from
motives of personal interest, was found base enough to
strike it; and as Don Garcilaso had been too busy in
fighting his way through the square to do it himself,
it thus continued to wave far into the night proudly
upon its elevation until now, when it arrested the eye
of the Spanish governor. “Let yonder white cloth
be dragged to the ground!” he cried; “I will take my
breakfast off it in the morning. I have not forgotten
the dishonour done to the Spanish flag on this very
spot, and now will I wipe out the insult then offered to
myself; as for this night's fresh work, I will make a
settlement at my leisure with the burgher gentlemen.
Tear the vile standard from its staff!” he cried, to a
portly Aragonese riding near him, who combined in
his person the offices of herald and trumpeter, “and in
its place, with sound of trumpet and roar of artillery,
let the proud ensign of Spain be lifted. We will remain
here and see it done!”
The herald unfolded the Spanish flag which he bore,
and, loosening his trumpet, spurred towards the flagstaff,
the foot of which, standing in the black shadow
of the southern tower of the Cathedral, was lost in the
gloom. An instant afterward there was heard in that
quarter a clashing of swords and quick hostile cries,
in the midst of which the ensign was seen to descend
to the earth, like a huge white bird lighting upon it.
Still the sounds of conflict continued growing each
moment louder and more determined.
“There is more mischief on foot,” cried the Count
proceeded.
Ere he was half way to the spot the noise of fighting
ceased; when he had reached within a few yards
of the flagstaff, a horseman, with a white mantle
wrapped about his form and a crimson cloth cast over
his steed, passed before him like the wind, and the
next instant disappeared down a dark street, as if it
had been a winged spirit. His first impulse was to
follow in pursuit, foreboding something wrong; but,
hearing the plaintive voice of his herald Boviedo, he
continued on to the foot of the flagstaff, where, to his
surprise, he saw this personage unhorsed and on his
knees, bareheaded, and divested of his trumpet, who
no sooner beheld him than he began with clasped hands
to plead.
“For the blessed Virgin's sake, and for the sake of
all the apostles, and for the sake of my poor wife and
six little ones, slay me not, good horseman!”
“Slay thee! Thy wife and little ones! Man, thou
wert never married! What mean these mouthed
lies, and this condition I find thee in?” cried the governor,
his surprise and anger tempered by the ludicrous
emotions excited by the scene.
“It be thyself, then, noble count,” cried the corpulent
and sorely discomfited Boviedo, gaining his feet;
“I am glad on't; I thought it had been that blanco
diable who set upon me as I was riding up—”
“Silence, sirrah! Where is the French flag I saw
but now descending to the ground?”
“When I came riding up, excellentissimo, there was
a man or devil, I know not which, cutting at the cords
with a drawn sword. I courageously charged upon
him, when he turned him about and crossed blades
with me. I called stoutly for help—”
“I'll be sworn thou didst.”
“Nay, but we had a mortal combat for a space, and,
if thou hadst been listening, thou wouldst have heard
the iron blows I laid upon him with my good sword,
like a sledge-hammer upon an anvil. I had nigh made
white flag through the air, and, flapping before my
horse, so frightened him, that, what with his huge
plunges, I was thrown as thou seest. When I got to
my feet, I beheld mine enemy flying through the air
like a ghost with great red and white wings.”
“Villanous compound of garlic and hot pepper, thy
wits have fooled thee, or thou art a very knave! If
thou hadst as much courage as abdomen, thou wouldst
have saved the honour of Spain. Lying mess of
pottage that thou art, thou hast been unhorsed and
beaten, and he who did it hath escaped with the flag.
I would have forgiven him had he slain thee too.
Where is the Spanish ensign? By the immaculate
Virgin! if thou hast let him bear that away too, for
methinks he had its semblance thrown across his saddle,
thou hadst better never been born!”
The poor herald made no reply; but, clasping the
fore legs of the count's horse, looked up deprecatingly,
the great grief that swelled his breast showing itself
on his round merry visage, all unused to sorrow,
with a drollery of expression that disarmed the fierce
wrath of the knight.
“Go to, poor braggart! If I had not heard the
clashing of the swords, I would cause my horse to
trample thee to death where thou grovellest! Doubtless
thou hast been unfairly taken at 'vantage by one
bolder than thou! By the mass, he rode boldly for it!
When thou hast won with thine own hand another
horse from a bourgeois, I will, perchance, receive thee
again. Till then, let me not see thy face!”
Thus speaking, the count released his steed from the
grasp of the disgraced herald, and galloped rapidly
away, venting his wrath, so suddenly averted from the
legitimate object of it, in deeply-uttered words of vengeance
upon those who, from beginning to end, had so
daringly resisted his authority.
“Cheer up, fat gossip!” said a strange voice, as the
knight rode off; “thou hast to thank thy belly for saving
thy back; for, hadst thou had less stomach, thou
the knight would ha' beat thee unconscionably.
Thank Heaven thou art a fool, brother! and then get
up from thy knees.”
Don Boviedo, alarmed at the suddenness, and appalled
by the singular hoarseness and depth of the
voice, looked around him on all sides, while these
words were addressed to him, in search of the speaker;
but, seeing no one, and fancying the voice to come
from the air, he became terrified, and, sticking to his
knees, began to pray lustily to every saint in the calendar.
“Ha, Don Spaniolo, keep at thy prayers! for thou
art a sinner! art thou not?” asked Gobin, who was
perched fifteen feet above him on the flagstaff, to which
place he had noiselessly descended from its lofty summit
when the Count of Osma rode up. “Art thou not
a sinner?”
“Yea, good Diabolus.”
“A very sinner?” repeated Gobin, resolutely.
“Yea am I,” answered the Don, penitently.
“Art thou not a rogue, Don Spaniolo?”
“That I am, a very rogue.”
“A most arrant coward?”
“Ay, good Diabolus, and a villanous coward.”
“Confess thyself the biggest liar in all Spain.”
“Or in all this province too.”
“Nay, I will not allow thee to lie better than I.
Man, I will put one more question to thee; and see
thou answer it roundly. Hast thou a rib o' the woman-kind?”
“Nay, good Diabolus, I have foresworn women
since I was a boy no higher than my knee.”
“Hast thou six small children?”
“Not a one.”
“I heard thee say so but now.”
“I lied.”
“Marry come up! what a thing is cowardice to
clean a sinner's conscience,” soliloquized the jester,
looking down upon his penitent. “Hear is a greasy
echising him, makes clean work of it, and showeth
himself black as the pot. If I put a few more questions
to him, I shall so clear him out that it will then
be a blessing to kill him, and send him to Heaven before
he gets foul again. Lest I be tempted to do him
this charity, I will not ask him another question that
savours of purification. Come, gossip, get to thy feet,
for thou hast ne'er a horse to get to! Look up; I
am a sinner like thyself. I will not harm thee. If
thou wantest lodging, I will give it thee!”
The Don took courage at his words; and, removing
his hands from his face, looked in the direction of his
voice, when, to his horror, he descried the jester, with
one leg clasped around the pole, hanging with his head
and hands downward. He was far from being reassured
by this equivocal attitude of his new acquaintance,
and was about to give way to his superstitious terror,
when the bouffon, sliding swiftly down the staff to the
ground, turned a somerset towards him, and placed his
hand familiarly upon his bare head.
“Poor gossip! Gobin pities thee, and will not mock
thee,” he said, with singular feeling. “Gossip has lost
his horse, his colours, and his master.”
The poor Don groaned and hid his face, overcome
with the events he had reminded him of. “Ay de mi!
ay de mi!” he sighed.
“I will help thee to get a horse, gossip,” said Gobin.
“Wilt thou?” he cried, clasping him in his embrace;
and then, recoiling with an exclamation of horror at
the singular visage and extraordinary costume of the
idiot, he cried,
“Avoid thee, Sathanas!”
“I am but a poor fool,” said Gobin, encouragingly,
as if he had waywardly taken a kind and friendly interest
in the unwieldy herald, of whose disgrace he had
been a witness, if not in part the cause of it, as he
evidently had borne a share in the disappearance of
the two standards. The encouraging tones of his
voice reassured him, and he asked eagerly,
“Wilt thou, good fool, aid me to win another horse?”
“That will I, brother Pauncho,” he replied, assuming
his usual extravagant manner, “and he shall have
saddle, bridle, and pistolets! Come along, gossip!”
“Verily, I will go with thee, good, speckled youth,
for I have none else to go with! Ay de mi! Boviedo,
hast thou come to this?”
Thus lamenting and mourning, the sorrowful Aragonese
suffered himself to be led away in the direction
of an obscure street by his new friend, who ludicrously
held him round the neck, and, as he went, breathed into
his ear such jests as in his cracked brain he deemed
best calculated to afford him consolation in his great
sorrow.
The count, in riding back, found the troops already
landed, to the number of two hundred and fifty mounted
Leonese lances, and seven hundred footmen. His
orders were then rapidly given and put into execution;
and in half an hour afterward every guardhouse was
occupied by his soldiers, and the government-house and
hall of council surrounded by a select guard. Not a
citizen, save the horseman the governor had met, had
been seen in the streets, nor was a light now visible in
any dwelling; and, after the resounding footsteps of
the various detachments, as they marched along the
streets, had ceased, there was a repose upon the city
as deep as that upon some peaceful hamlet.
The horse, and five hundred of the foot that were
not detached for the guardhouses bivouacked in the
square, lying on their arms in groups around the fountain.
Near it was also pitched a snow-white tent, with
a bell-shaped canopy, richly bordered with broad silver
lace, upon the tall summit of which floated in the breeze
a Spanish standard, gayly displaying its brilliant hues
in the light of the moon, which, from her shield of
pearl, shed over the whole warlike scene that strange,
dreamy beauty in which romance and mystery so love
to wander and lose themselves.
| CHAPTER V.
THE NIGHT LANDING. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |