 | II.—THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. Legends of Mexico |  |
2. II.—THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS.
The Army encamped in the wilderness, a hamlet of white tents, gleaming
from the gloom of the boundless prairie, the stars of midnight shining
serenely from the dark blue vault, that Banner, with its stars, its belts of
scarlet and snow, borne aloft, like a mighty bird, by the summer breeze!
Here, rising from the sod of the prairie, a solitary rock, glooms greyly
through the night. Like the fragment of some meteroic shower, like the
wreck of some Pre-Adamite world, like a monument, built long ages ago
to the memory of the heroic dead, the solitary rock, glooms into the
sky.
We will stand near the rock, we will lean upon its rugged front, and
gaze upon this strange sight—the camp in the wilderness!
Does not the scene strike your heart with a deep awe?
That boundless prairie, canopied by the midnight sky, with the hamlet
of white tents gleaming like altars of snow from the darkness! Far to
the south, thick and dense, like a forest blasted in its growth, extends the
chaparral; a wall of briers and thorns. Yonder, on the north, like a
silver clasp, on a robe of dark velvet, a small lake, shines from the blackness
of the prairie.
In front of each tent, the bayonets gleam, like scattered drops of light.
Here you behold the cannon, and there, the war-horses, crouching in
slumber, on the soft grass of the waste.
A silence like death prevails.
Now it is broken by the voice of the sentinel, pealing suddenly from
the camp of the wilderness. Now, the shrill neigh of the war-steed—now
the roar of the ocean, breaking on the shore, seven miles away, comes
like the hoarse whisper of a thousand men murmuring over the plain.
Now, a stillness like death; in that encampment of two thousand brave
men, not a sound is heard.
Again, hark! The howl of the jackal, comes like a funeral knell over
the waste. Hideous, prolonged, distant, that cry chills your heart with
dread, for it speaks of a loathsome beast, mangling with grey teeth and
fangs, the cold face of the battle dead.
And whether the Ocean's roar comes like a hoarse whisper, or the
along the air, or the neigh of the war-horse, quivers like a battle-shout, or
whether a silence like death, comes down upon the camp of the wilderness,
still, yonder, above the central tent, floats and swells the Banner of
the Stars.
Confess with me, that the scene is invested with a grandeur all its own.
Here, you behold no mountains rising from clustered vallies, into the
region of eternal silence and snow. Here, no undulating hills, crowned
with the golden wheat or emerald corn. Here, no awful cliffs, with a
narrow passage, winding amid their broken shadows. Only a vast prairie,
a hamlet of tents and a midnight sky!
You have seen Washington encamped among the wintry hills of Valley
Forge, or amid the sublime cliffs of the Hudson, or in the centre of the
Brandywine vallies. Encircled by scenes like these, the American Banner
floated on the air, into a background of rocks, or mountains, or undulating
woods. But here, it waves against the sky, alone. Here, man—
with nothing to break the awful monotony of the scene—is in truth, alone
with the earth and sky.
From the central tent of the encampment, with the mountains, waving
to the air, a belt of light streams far along the sod.
Ere, we enter that tent, and gaze upon the Man who watches there, let
us remember these important truths:
It is the seventh of May, 1846.
This little army of two thousand men, slumbering securely on the
boundless Prairie, are surrounded by a Mexican army of some six thousand
veteran soldiers. Yonder wall of chaparral is black with their
faces.
The morrow will bring a battle—and the end of that battle will be
Massacre and Butchery.
We enter the central tent of the Camp in the Wilderness.
A solitary light burns there, on the small table, overspread with charts
and papers.
In the far corner of this home in the wilderness, with its roof and walls
of fluttering canvass, you behold military trunks piled in a mass. Around
the light extends an open space of grassy sod.
Four men are gathered there, talking with each other, in low, earnest
tones.
The one on the right, dressed in a plain green frock, with a knife in
his belt and a rifle in his hand, is a Texian Ranger: a man of iron
frame, not so remarkable for his height as for the unpretending resolution,
written upon his sunburnt face. Broad cheekbones, an aqualine nose,
thin, firm lips, wide forehead and chesnut hair, curling in short locks, complete
the picture of his face.
He stands there, erect as the Red Indian, a fine specimen of an iron
match for at least an hundred disciplined soldiers.
Next to him, presenting a perfect contrast, you behold a tall young soldier,
clad in the blue uniform of the American dragoon, his finely proportioned
limbs, narrow waist, and broad chest, his marked face, with hair
flowing to the shoulders, and beard waving over the breast—both dark as
night—affording a picture, something like the chivalric crusader of the
olden time.
Opposite the young dragoon, stands a man of majestic stature, and imposing
presence. His fine figure is clad in the blue and buff uniform
which clings to him like a glove to the hand, with the epaulettes on the
shoulder, the sword by the side. His dark hair falls back from his broad
forehead, his full eye sparkles as with the fire of battle. In his determined
face, you may read the lineaments of his great Ancestor, an heroic
General of the Revolutionary time.
The centre of the group and the object of every eye!
An old man. An old man, not even clad in the glitter and show of a
uniform, but attired in the much-used frock coat of dark brown hues, grey
pantaloons, with a wide-brimmed hat in his hand. An old man, with a
broad chest, a figure not more than five feet nine inches in stature, a face,
bronzed by the sun and toil of thirty eight years of battle service.
His form is somewhat broad and bulky, his face bronzed and seamed
by battle toil, his hair whitened by age, and yet there is that about the old
man, which interests your eye, and impresses your heart.
His face, in repose, seems only to indicate an overflowing good humor
and abundance of social feeling. But now the full grey eye flashes wild
deep light, from beneath the strongly defined eye brow, the lips—the lower
one slightly projecting—are moulded in an expression of iron resolution,
the brow glows in every wrinkle, with the fire of Thought.
Who are these four men gathered at midnight, by the light of the solitary
candle, in this Tent of the Wilderness?
They bear names which may become famous before many days. The
Texian Ranger, is Captain Walker—the chivalric dragoon, Captain May—
the soldier of the majestic figure, Major Ringgold. And the old man in
the faded brown coat, with the broad brimmed hat in his hand, stands
there with the lives of two thousand men upon his heart, with the honor
of the Flag of Washington in his hand.
That plain old man is Zachary Taylor, General of the Continental
Army — Yes, let us call this heroic band by the name which Washington
made sacred, that name which indicates the destiny of our arms and the
course of our civilization—Continental.
Can you tell me the nature of the thought, that stamps the old man's
brow?
Even as you gaze in his battle-worn face, he starts—he mutters an
that hoarse murmur of the Signal gun. Yes, seven days ago, when—with
Mexicans swarming over plain and river—he left the Rio Grande, determined
to march to Point Isabel, distant some twenty-six miles, there remained
in the rude fort opposite Matamoras, the veteran Major Brown,
with only three hundred men.
“When you are attacked,” said Zachary Taylor, “send me word by
your signal gun.”
That signal gun has been heard for the last four days and nights. But
a few hours ago, driven almost to frenzy by its sound, Taylor, with his
men, left Point Isabel, on the sea shore, determined to march to the rescue
of his brothers on the Rio Grande—to march twenty-six miles, through
that wilderness of chaparral and prairie, swarming with the veteran armies
of Mexico. Nor with armies alone, but darkened by the wild assassin
horde of rancheros.
And now, encamped for the night, on the desert prairie, he hears once
more the signal gun, calling with its thunder throat for aid. As he starts
with anxiety, raising his hand to his brow, let us for ourselves behold the
danger announced by the Signal gun.
Away to the Rio Grande, that stream which like a huge serpent winds
languidly to the sea. Away through these wastes, across these dark
ravines, away for eighteen miles, and look upon the peril of the heroic
three hundred.
Emerging from the shadows of the chaparral, we stand upon this rock,
and witness a wildly beautiful scene. Before us, rolling through the dim
shadows like a waving belt of silver thrown down upon a black mantle,
gleams the Rio Grande. Yonder through the gloom, we behold the roofs
and steeples of Matamoras; a town built in a strange Moorish architecture,
embosomed in a country of leaves and flowers.
On this side of the river, the Fort gleams through the night, an immense
structure of earth, built by the old General, when he first displayed the
banner of the stars on the Rio Grande, and held for the last four days and
nights, by the veteran Brown and three hundred men, against thousands
of Mexican soldiers.
The night is very dark and still. The sky is obscured by clouds—the
clouds of cannon smoke which for four days and nights have veiled sun,
moon, and stars.
Suddenly, from the town, a blaze rushes into the dark sky. Is it a
Comet, with its head of fire, and long mane of flame? It sweeps over
the dark pall, it lights the winding river with a momentary glare, and then
hisses down into the rude home of the American soldiers.
All is silent, dark, and dead again.
Not a sound from the fort. Its bastions half-destroyed, its trenches
filled with earth, its soldiers standing like spectres, in the shadows, this
grave.
Where is the commander of these men, where the veteran Brown, who
seven days ago, grasped swarthy-faced Zachary by the hand, and pledged
himself to keep the fort or die?
Come! While from the centre of the Fort, lashed to the staff, the
banner of the Stars waves on the night, as it has waved since first it shone
over Rio Grande—Come! Here, we will find the first hero of the fort.
Behold him in his couch. Yes, a couch sheltered by a rude canopy.—
Certain barrels, support horizontal pieces of timber, on which sod and
clay is laid. In that dismal resting place, thus made, behold all that remains
of the hardy soldier. His brow wet with the dews of mortal
agony, he writhes there, protected by these barrels from the bomb-shells,
which cut the earth and agitate the air on every side.
Only yesterday, with his right leg, in literal words, torn from his body
by a shell—only yesterday, while calmly taking his rounds through the
besieged fort, he fell, and as he writhed in pain, uttered the memorable
words:
“Men go to your duties: stand by your posts: I am but one among
you.”
As we gaze upon him in his agony—dying here by inches, on the shores
of Rio Grande—that solitary streak of fire is followed by another, and
another, until the sky is alive with threads of quivering light. It looks
like a battle fought in the heavens, by the good and evil angels; the weapons
stars and comets.
The town, its roofs crowded with people, its cathedral towers looming
over all, comes forth gaily in the red light, Boom—boom—boom—the
cannon shout, as they hurl the brazen balls through the heated air.
The winding river glows and burns on every wave. The fort, with its
battered walls, its disfigured parapets, its three hundred solders, cowering
for want of ammunition by their voiceless guns, stands out in the glare of
that fierce cannonade.
On either side of the fort, from the river shore to the chaparral, the
prospect is terrible. The land swarms with Mexicans. Their gay apparel
of gilt buttons, glittering spangles, cloth of many dies, shines brilliantly
in the light. Here march the disciplined legions; there skulks
the knifed and bearded Ranchero, waiting until the fort is taken, that he
may cut throats, and feel hot blood spouting over his hands.
At this moment, when the brave three hundred,—these iron men, who,
since last Sabbath morning have stood, with but a few soldiers killed, the
incessant bombardment,—listen to the groans of the mangled veteran, and
behold the universe, blazing with light, the river and the shore and the
city, all black with thousands, waiting for the moment of their fall, that
they may witness their massacre,—at this moment, when the “great old
when with his two thousand, he will cut his way to the fort or die—at
this instant of light and darkness and blood, the torch is applied to the
cannon, and that signal gun calls to the General, far over the prairie, and
with its fiery throat says, help us or we die!
Let us see what difficulties intervene between the Cromwell of the
American Army, and the doomed fortress on the Rio Grande.
Search the chaparral—they gleam with bayonets. Yes, like fire flies
the sharp points glitter through the gloom. Look into the ravines—they
are black with crouching rancheroes, grim fellows, who cut a throat to
give them appetite, and inflict a stab in the back from mere exuberance of
animal spirits.
For eighteen miles or more, which extend between Fort Brown and
the Camp in the Wilderness, the Mexican forces—the regular veterans,
who have fought like wounded tigers in many a battle, and the assassin
hordes who follow the disciplined legions, as buzzards flutter in the wake
of eagles—the Mexican forces extend in terrible array, one immense
cloud of battle, armed with the thunder of cannon, the lightning of lance
and bayonet.
They await the coming of the Morrow! There will be a royal time,
by the setting of to-morrow's sun. Whoop! How the vultures will shriek,
as by its last ray, they settle on the cold faces of the battle dead, and pick
glassy eyes from their sockets.
Through the dusky chaparral, into the camp of the Mexican general!
A splendid tent, fluttering with curtains of silk and gold, and with the
light of wax candles, streaming through its crevices, rises in the centre of
a grassy glade, near a lakelet of cool, clear water.
Around this tent, all is light, glitter and motion.
Here a tawny Ranchero in his half bandit, half soldier uniform crouches
on the grass, playing cards with a soldier of the regular forces: yonder
the clatter of the drinking vessel breaks on the air, mingled with the sound
of footsteps, rioting in the dance.
And all the while, bands of music, fill the air with a thunder-chorus of
rich sounds, or die away through the dark paths of the chaparral, in a low
deep murmur, that seems like a requiem for the battle-dead.
And near the lakelet, towers the Marque of the General, surmounted
by the gay tri-colored flag of Mexico, typifying the three predominant
influences in that golden and bloody clime, Superstition, Ignorance,
Crime.
Within the tent, seated on a luxuriously cushioned chair, near a voluptuous
bed, glistening with the trappings of oriental taste, you behold a
man of warrior presence, his gay uniform thrown open across the breast,
while he holds the goblet of iced champaigne to his lips.
By his side, converses the handsome and brave La Vega, and around
keeping time with their lips, in the game of careless mirth.
The fragrance of tobacco—not your miserable weed, which is called
Tobacco, because it resembles a compound of brimstone and pitch—but the
glorious tobacco, from Cuba, pervades the tent, with a mild and delicious
perfume.
The swarthy faces of the Mexican officers, glow with calm satisfaction
as the champaigne glass and the Havana cigar, pass from lip to lip.
In the camp of Zachary Taylor, you behold nothing but a plain old
man, in a brown coat, conversing earnestly with three of his bravest officers,
on the fate of to-morrow's battle:
Here, the blaze of oriental magnificence blinds your sight, here the
laugh and the song go round, to the chorus of clattering glasses and applauding
hands. In the midst of all, sits the General Arista, that man
whom Santa Anna made a soldier, twirling his red mustache, as he presses
the delicious champaigne to his lips.
Meanwhile Ringgold, and Walker and May—three heroic men, each
the type of a different class—have gone to their quarters and the leader
of the American army is alone.
Extended on the rude camp bed he sleeps. His form still attired in
his plain apparel, his throat bared, his bronzed face turned to the light.
He slumbers for a few brief hours, in order to gather strength for the
march of the morrow.
The sentinel—a grim veteran—paces slowly up and down in front of
the tent.
All is silent. The distant roar of the Ocean, the howl of the jackal, the
neighing of steeds, have died away.
As the moon rises over the distant horizon, flinging the shadow of the
tents far over the sod, a dark object moves in the gloom—advances imperceptibly
and is still again.
Is it a jackal in search of a dead body, or a vulture impatient for the
feast of the morrow?
Still it moves on, ever keeping in the shadow. Moves on, while the
Sentinel paces to and fro, and the May moon rises over the Camp in the
Wilderness.
It approaches the tent of the General, glides under the walls, and starts
stealthy up to his bed, and stands revealed, in the form of a man of some
sixty years, with a broad chest, tawny skin, long hair, grizzled with age
and thick beard, descending to the breast of a half-robber uniform.
It is a Ranchero. He stands scowling beside the couch of the General,
his white teeth, gleaming beneath his dark mustache, while the sharp
knife quivers in his hand.
Hark—a footstep! The sentinel comes, passes the opening of the tent,
looks in, and sees nothing but the bronzed face of the sleeping general.
shadow.
The Sentinel is gone, and that dusky image of Assassination, glooms once
more beside the couch, the knife quivering in his hand. The bared throat
invites the blow. A muttered ejaculation in barbarous Spanish, and the
murderer contemplates his victim.—
An old man, soundly sleeping, as though God protected every one of
his grey hairs, and reserved his large brain, for immortal deeds.
One blow of that knife, and the old man is a corse, the American army
deprived of its Mind, the Mexicans secured forever from his sword.
Only one blow? The grizzled-haired Ranchero raises the knife, mutters
a prayer, kisses a cross, and whirls the knife home, to the victim's
heart.
That brawny arm, with sinews like whip cords never failed of its mark,
never once, in the perils of darkest battles; why should it now?
And yet it does! Hissing through the air, it grazes the General's cheek,
and cleaves his pillow.
The face of the Murderer, is convulsed in every feature. As though
astonished by his want of success, he folds his hands, bends, prays and
then crawls snake-like from the tent.
The knife was found next morning, buried in the pillow.—
Again that dim figure creeping through the ways of the camp—now
pausing, now looking like a frightened tortoise from a side, and still cautiously
crawling on, he gains the open prairie, where his steed waits for
him, with quivering nostrils and waving mane.
And still the moon arises and sheds its calm light over the city of tents,
and over the bronzed face of the sleeping old man. And the sentinel,
pacing his rounds in front of the old General's tent, feels his senses
cheered by the perfume of wild flowers, feels the cool breeze from the
ocean upon his brow, feels the throb of the fight, which is to come on the
morrow, already palpitate in his veins.
In the dusky shadow of the chaparral, a Ranchero dismounts from his
steed.
By the light of the moon, you may see twenty swarthy faces, look
from the covert in his face, and the stalwart forms of the band, encircle
with a wall of iron-sinewed chests.
The solitary Ranchero, whom we have seen, bending over the couch
of Zachary Taylor, advances, and then you hear these fierce whispered
words, spoken in barbarous Spanish—
“It is done?” cries the foremost of the band. “The Oath was taken
on the Holy Cross. We swore to have the life of the Invader. On you,
by lot, devolved the office of Executioner. You have done it. Yes—
the blood of the American drips from your steel!”
But the Ranchero with grizzled hair and beard could not reply.
Bending down among his brethren—those stern children of the wild—
he veiled his face in his hands.
“I saw him in his sleep—I felt the blood tingle in my veins—I struck
home with the knife—but there was something about the old man's face
that turned its aim aside. I could not kill him! Sworn to do the deed,
sworn upon the holy cross, to destroy the invader, I could not strike him!
There is a Providence about the old man!”
And as the Ranchero—the bloodiest of that bloody band—sank cowering
on the sod, not ashamed to confess, that he was afraid to kill the
sleeping old man, the brothers of the dark confederacy, gazed upon his
tawny face, in silent awe—in wonder—in fear—even as the moonlight
played with the blade of his assassin's knife.
In the most fearful hour of battle—that hour, when the hand is weary
with slaughter, and the eye sick of seeing forevermore wherever it turns,
the faces of dead men—this same Ranchero, with the blood pouring from
his death-wound, told the strange story to an American soldier, who knelt
by his side, and `thanked God, that there was a Providence about the
old man.'
Up over the prairie, up over the chaparral, up over the city and the
fort, rises the moon! The night wears on. Still, from the fort yells the
shriek of the signal gun, and in the plaza of Matamoras gather the forlorn
hope, who are to storm the refuge of the Americans, and put them all to
the mercy of the assassin's knife. The night wears on. Between your
vision and the moon, the vulture flaps his wings—from yonder thicket
the jackal howls for his dead man feast. The night wears on, the moon
rises, the hum of a thousand insects makes the atmosphere alive. The
Banner of the Stars still waves from its staff; the Crusaders still soundly
sleep beneath its folds.
Sleep on, brave men. To-morrow, perchance, for many of you, a softer
couch will be spread by skeleton hands. Dream of your wives, your little
ones—of all that Heaven says to us in the word—Home. To-morrow:
for many of you, that word will not mean the pleasant fireside of Pennsylvania,
nor the quiet room of your wild-wood dwelling, but merely a
dark chaparral, a dead body, with a Jackal and Vulture as chief mourners.
Pace your rounds brave sentinel, with your grey moustache and withered
cheek.
Even now, in your distant home, your daughter—oh you remember her!
how beautiful she looked, when she pressed her warm lips to your mouth
and said, playing with your hard hands—Good bye; God bless you
Father! Even now in that distant home, just a few paces from the village
path, where the old sycamore stands, your daughter comes to the
window, and looking upon the very moon which shines upon your face,
Prays God that father may come home again, and come soon!
Pace on your rounds brave sentinel, and shout —“All is well!” What
your head?
Do you know, brave soldiers, that it makes my heart feel sick, to go
among your tents, at this dead hour of the night, and listen to the words
you whisper in your dreams?
Home—Wife—Child! These words are on your lips, still you whisper
of them all. Here, a beardless boy turns him over in his sleep, and
says in one breath, the words, Mother—Glory! A ghostly marriage of a
pale face with blue eyes and grey hair, with a hideous skull wreathed
with flowers, those words form together—Mother and Glory!
Sleep on, stout old Zachary, nor dream of your Indian wars, nor turn
your bronzed face from the moon, nor restlessly reach forth your hand
to grasp your sword. Never fear the morrow. God and Destiny watch
over your grey hairs, and for you bright words are written, even upon the
battle cloud, and brighter forms beckon you on, even across the wilderness
of battle graves!
| II.—THE CAMP IN THE WILDERNESS. Legends of Mexico | |