The Tennessean a novel, founded on facts |
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 | CHAPTER V. The Tennessean |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
How long we had slept I know not, when we were
suddenly aroused by the trampling of horses, and upon
looking up, to our astonishment, beheld about three hundred
men, armed with swords and pistols, and were
made prisoners before we were fairly awake! We remonstrated
in bold terms against this outrage, adding
that “we were citizens of the United States, and came
on friendly terms, that there was a large party of us, and
finally, they would be made to pay dear for offering such
violence to our persons.”
To all this they returned no answer, but proceeded to
place us on horses, confining our hands behind our backs
with cords, and our feet under the body of the horse, in the
same manner. Our rifles, which they seized the first
thing, together with our pistols, were carried by the men,
in triumph.
They now set forward, and hurried us on at an unmerciful
rate, and when we complained they menaced us
in an angry tone, and made signs as though they would
shoot us.
They continued to travel, at the same rate, in an easterly
direction till dark, it being about twelve o'clock
when they came upon us. About dusk we arrived at a
considerable village, the name of it, I have since understood,
was Depotozy. We were now released from the
horses, and conducted into a room tolerably furnished, a
guard of fifty men being placed outside of the door, which
they locked after them, they left us.
In the course of thirty minutes the door was opened,
and four armed men came into the room, bearing a large
wooden bowl, containing our suppers. This consisted of
meat, cut in small pieces, mixed up with soup and Indian
corn.
One of the men, whom I knew to be one of those who
captured us, and who rode by our side to this place, addressed
although we were near perishing with hunger, at the
time, nothing would have been more acceptable than the
savoury contents of the bowl. Yet our sad reverse of
fortune had such an effect upon us that we felt little appetite
to eat. We did, however, drink some of the soup,
eat a few mouthfulls of meat, and enquired of the man, in
the meantime, the cause of our captivity, and what they
designed to do with us? He answered, with a frown,
“that we would find that out when we got to the city of
Mexico,” and finally gave us no other satisfaction. He
soon withdrew and left us to our own reflections.
Of all the acts of folly that ever were committed by
men in their senses, it certainly was the greatest in us to
stop or make ourselves known at St. Juan. And although
disappointment and disaster must finally be the
end of this ill-judged undertaking, yet this step was
the sure way to hasten our ruin, as it appeared in the
sequel.
A guard, or military station, was kept at St. Juan.
These men dispatched a messenger to Mexico, to apprize
that city of our intrusion; and a party of soldiers was
immediately dispatched, either to destroy or take us
prisoners. This we learned afterwards.
Next morning we were visited by the principal of the
town, as we took him to be from his appearance. And
the same person who addressed us the evening before,
attended as an interpreter.
This person asked us “what were our motives in visiting
their country with an armed force?”
We replied that we were armed only for the purpose
of procuring food, and defending ourselves from the savages,
that we were exploring our own country, and were
obliged to pass through theirs.
He replied that he had but little doubt but that we were
spies, and in pursuit of their mules with a view of purloining
them, as we had heretofore done.
He enquired how many there were of us, and what had
become of the others? With respect to our numbers, I
answered him correctly, and without hesitation.—Observing
that we had separated from our companions, in
there on foot, which was true, and that we could not say
what had become of our party. We remonstrated against
being detained as prisoners, alleging that his government
would be held responsible for his conduct. To
this he made no reply, but said something in the Spanish
language to those around him, the purport of which I presume
was, that they must proceed with us to Mexico, for
thither we were immediately conveyed.
We arrived at that city on the fourth day, about noon,
being escorted by about fifty men, on horseback, armed
with clubs, swords, and pistols.
When we entered Mexico we were immediately carried
into the presence of the Viceroy, who questioned us
upon our motives in entering their territories, our number,
&c. We answered nearly in the same manner as
we had done before. After various efforts to extort from
us further confession, this representative of Spainish royalty
ordered us into close confinement, in separate apartments.
Nor would they allow us the use of pen, ink, or
paper, or any means of communicating with each other.
At the end of eight days I was brought out before his
majesty again, who was this time surrounded by a numerous
crowd of attendants. He put the same questions
to me as before, and I made the same replies. I was
now confronted with a witness, who, it seems, had arrived
from St. Juan. By him I was charged with dissembling,
my confession being at variance with the declaration
of our men, at that place. I replied that I was
not accountable for the hair-brain expressions of a few
wild young men, and that I told them the truth.
When I was ordered to retire I refused, and said I
would rather die than be detained in prison. I remonstrated
in bold and forcible language against this outrage
upon my liberty, and denounced the heaviest vengeance
upon the whole Spanish nation. My feelings were
wrought up to such a height that I would rather have died
than not. I had committed no offence against their
country, nothing had been proved against me, and even
if there had been, I disclaimed their jurisdiction!
But this brutal Spaniard was immovable, and I was
in a different part of the city from that in which
I had hitherto been confined.
As the sound of the last door reached my ear, it appeared
as if I had taken final leave of the world! Had
I been sentenced to death I could not have felt worse.—
My former prison was a palace, compared to this. It
was lighted with windows, and furnished with mats, tables,
and seats.
I had hitherto been supplied with tolerable food—behold
me now, shut up in a dungeon dark as midnight,
chained down in such a manner that I could just bend my
body and once a day fed with bread water! Had I been
blessed with the company of my friend, even in this situation,
it would have been supportable. Doomed, for
aught I knew, to drag out a long life of suffering perhaps,
without ever more seeing the light of the sun!—
Death, in any shape, in its worst of terrors, would have
been mercy, compared to the tortures I endured. I raved,
I bewailed my fate, I called on my keeper to put
me to death rather than leave me in such a place. In
short, my sufferings were such, that I was seized with
a fever, which depived me of my reason.
How long I was deranged, I am even yet ignorant;
but when I regained my senses, I found myself unchained,
a lamp in my cell, and attended by a different keeper.
“You must be an angel,” said I, as I attempted to
raise myself up to examine his features;) “and I must
be in heaven.” Relieved from the impenetrable gloom
which pervaded my dungeon, my first sensations were,
that I was actually in another world.
“Why, sure now, I am glad to hear you say that;”
said the man, with an Irish accent; “and you have
been stark mad, this long while.”
“And who are you?” said I, “and how came I to be
unchained?” “My name, thin, is Dennis O'Conner;
and your chains were taken off by the order of the governor,
because they thought you was dying.” “How
long have I been sick, Dennis?” “Indeed, thin, I
can't tell. I have been with you six days, and a time I
have had of it. Always calling for drink, and calling
afraid you would die, and they sint me to take care of
you, because I could spake the same tongue as yoursilf.”
“And what has become of my friend, the young man
who was taken with me? Can you give me any information
respecting him, my friend?” He shewed an unwillingness
to answer this enquiry; saying his life would
pay the forfeit, if it were known that he gave me any
information on the subject. He informed me that he was
an Irishman, and had lived with the Spaniards nineteen
years. He expressed much pleasure at my recovery,
and said he must go and report the same to his mistress:
and, leaving the lamp burning he bid me farewell.
In the course of a few hours, Dennis returned.—
“Och!” said he, “you don't know how they are lifted
up, to hear that you are getting well again:” and,
drawing near, addressed me in a whisper, saying, “I
have brought your honour a little bit of a chicken here;
but, for the love of God, don't be saying any thing about
it; and here's a drop of wine to nourish you, and put
strength in you. I tould my young lady that it was a
great shame that sich a gentleman as your honour should
lie here, like a baste, and that you had a stomach to
your victuals, and ought to have something better than
could water.”
“Who is your young lady, my friend? Is she the
governor's daughter? or whose daughter is she?” “My
young lady, God bless her, for she is the best crature
that ever trod on nates leather, is the governor's daughter.”
“I thank you, my friend, and your young lady,
too.”
“Och! if I had time I could tell you a deal about her
and her maither. But do now rise up and try to ate a bit,
it will help to strengthen you. But as I was saying, my
lady's mother is dead, she died when my lady was a bit
of a child—and many's the day I've carried her in my
arms, and learn'd her to spake English. Och, if you
had seen her mother, just to hear her when she was a
dying, poor soul! “Dennis,” says she, “never while
you live, never forsake my child, I am going to leave her
in the wide world, and I shall depend on you, Dennis,
Faith! she might well say that—but divil a bit of
her was I going to lave if she hadn't a tould me. Rest
her sowl, she is in etarnity now, and I'm sure I wouldn't
tell a lie about it!”
“What country woman was she, Dennis,” said I,
willing to keep up the conversation for the sake of
amusement.
“Why, sure, she was a Portigeese lady, though she
was born in swate Ireland, and whin she was woman
grown her mother took her to Portigal, and ill luck betide
me, who should they take to wait upon them, but
Dennis. But why in the name of the Vargin don't you
ate sir, and drink a bit of the wine, it will strangthen
your stomach.”
“I cannot eat, for joy Dennis, to think that you and
your young lady have had compassion on such a poor miserable
being as I am. I hope that heaven will reward you
both. But go on with your story, Dennis, you were going
to tell me about your lady, the sound of your voice
is music to my ear.”
“I can't stay now,” said he, “I'll tell you some other
time.”
“Can you learn what is to done with me, Dennis?”
“Oh, I suppose they'll jist kape you in here awhile,
and maybe have you before the Inquisition.—I don't
hear any thing about what they are agoing to do. But
one thing I do know—that my lady's in a peck of troubles
about you and the other man.”
“Ah, true! what has become of him: for God's sake
tell me where he is!”
Before he had time to reply I heard a deep groan, resembling
a human voice—“What can that be, Dennis?”
He seemed no way surprised, but rather appeared to
shrink from the question, though he spoke not.
“That must be some unfortunate being, Dennis. Oh,
my kind friend, tell me, is it Wilson? is it my unfortunate
companion?”
“Now you are so coaxin' you would almost make a
body forsware themselves, and maybe—” said Dennis
hesitatingly “but then father Antonio would say it was
a hainous crime. But if I thought—”
“Fear me not, friend, I will never betray you, I would
suffer a hundred deaths first, I would sooner suffer the
tortures of your infernal Inqusition itself.”
“Holy Father,” ejaculated Dennis, “if my lady's
father had heard you say that—”
“I will not then speak against the customs of your
country. For your sake I will not do it, but more particularly
for the sake of your young lady.”
“You know her then?”
“No indeed I do not, I never saw her, of whom you
speak. But, dear Dennis, keep me no longer in suspense,
does my friend live, and was it him that we heard just
now?”
“Why sure, then,” said Dennis, pointing to the
place with his finger, and nodding an assent with his
head at the same time. This was enough.
“He lives then?” said I, “could I contrive some
means of conversing with him I should be happy, though
in a dungeon!”
I was silent some time, and finding that Dennis made
no reply, I asked some questions respecting the nature
of the wall that separated the dungeons.
“It cannot be very thick Dennis, and since you have
given me such, and so many testimonials of your friendship,
could you not aid me in procuring some instrument
to make a small opening in the partition,—by which
means we might converse?”
Dennis, after some hesitation, exclaimed suddenly—
“I am overstaying my time, I shall talk a bit with my
lady about it.” And intimated that it was a dangerous
thing to attempt. “You don't know these Spaniards
yet!” Saying this he left me.
After his departure I crawled, being unable to walk,
to the place from whence the groan issued, and called to
Wilson as loud as I was able, but received no answer.—
I repeated my efforts, but in vain. I struck the wall with
my hand, and with the lamp, which Dennis had left
with me, I examined every inch of the partition, but
found no aperture or any place more favourable than another
for my purpose. The partition was constructed
of huge pieces of timber, laid length-ways and clampt
continued my efforts to make myself heard, until I was
completely exhausted, and threw myself down in hopeless
agony.
While I lay in a fainting condition I thought of the wine
left by the kind-hearted Dennis, and swallowing a
large draught, it immediately restored me. I then ate
the chicken entirely up, and was scarcely done when the
well known voice of Wilson assailed my ear.
I crept to the place from whence the sound proceeded,
and eagerly enquired after his health. He replied that
he was well and had been much distressed on account of
my indisposition, his keeper having informed him that
I could never recover! I satisfied him, so far as I knew,
respecting it. After mutual congratulations respecting
our ability to converse, he gave me the following account:
“When I was separated from you I was ordered before
the Viceroy, where, having gone through a strict
examination, I was sent to this wretched dungeon.—I
gave my enemies to understand that they would pay dear
for their conduct, and demanded pen, ink, and paper, to
write to my government on the subject of my confinement.
This was refused. I then demanded leave to
write to my parents. This was also refused. I repeated
my request with redoubled boldness, regardless of the
consequence. At length my request was granted, and I
wrote to my father, but I have little hopes of its ever
reaching him. I saw treachery in their looks too plain
to believe they will suffer any communication between
us and our country.
“Dissimulation was too visible in their countenances.
I however submitted the letter to their inspection, as I
wished to convince them I was not the poor wretch they
took me to be, having called on my father, in it, to send
me two thousand dollars.
“I was then lodged in this infernal den, and fed once
a day on bread and water. As I can speak their language
a little, I was soon apprised of your illness. By
soothing the barbarian who attended me, I at length
prevailed on him to tell me your fate, which I had suspected.
and in the adjacent dungeon.
“After imploring this wretch as earnestly as though I
were begging for my life, which in fact was the same
thing, he gained permission from the Intendant to allow
me a light.
“In his various visits to my cell, I could see by the
light of the lamp that the wall which separated us was of
wood, which suggested the idea that I might succeed in
opening a place, through which we might converse.
“That was about ten days since, during which I have
been engaged in making the opening with my tommahawk,
which the Spaniards overlooked when they disarmed
me, and which I have taken care to keep concealed.
With this and my hunting-knife I worked day and
night, desisting only when I looked for the man to bring
me food.”
Upon my expressing some wonder that he had continued
to keep the place concealed, he replied that he had
contrived, with the assistance of his knife, to cut the
first piece out so adroitly that it fitted the aperture exactly,
and concealed the fragments in a hole which he
had dug in the floor.
We now discussed the subject of our imprisonment and
release, with the probabilities in favour and against us.
We continued to converse and console each other the
whole of that night, and endeavoured to draw comfort
though remote from the idea, that if the letter forwarded
by Wilson should miscarry, yet some of our party might
escape and apprise our friends of our captivity.
This was the only certainty we had of relief, but this
spoke a long captivity! Wilson, who had been chained
when he was first put in the dungeon, said he was relieved
from it in about two or three days. Briefly, we talked
ourselves asleep, from which I was roused by Dennis
about nine o'clock the next morning.
Almost the first question I asked Dennis was—
“whether he had received any reprehension for staying
so long with me the preceding day?”
He replied that he had not, and that no one knew of
it but his young lady. “I went straight to her,” he
She is sorry enough for him.”
“Dennis, says she, I wish you might contrive some
means to see him, for I cannot send him any thing by his
kaiper.”
“I'll warrant he would be glad to oblige you. What
business is it to any one what he does for you?”
“I will try him,” says she, “he cannot but refuse.—
Dennis, say you he has nothing but bread and water?”
“No, sure he has not,” says I, “I can assure you,
Donna, it is too bad for a Christian!”
“I will see,” said she, “what can be done.”
“She tould me to go and tell the kaiper she wanted to
see him. So behold ye, whin he wint in to see my lady,
what does I do but kape myself clare out of sight,
mind ye, to hear what was goin' on, for I never had a
very warm heart for this Spanish gentry—so my lady
ups and tells how bad you and your friend was sarved,
and that they would all be made to suffer for it in the
long run, and comes round the lad the handsomest way
you ever saw. And so after blathering a bit of a while
with him she axes him to drink a glass of wine, and
says to him, says she—but why don't your honour ate,
here's some good hot coffee and hot cakes, they will all
get could.”
The sweat by this time was standing in great drops on
my forehead, from mere anxiety to know the amount of
Dennis' communication. Though I was much pleased
at hearing him talk at all times, I would rather have
heard the subject in one word at the present. But that
would be impossible from one of his method, and sitting
to my breakfast Dennis continued—
“So, as I was after telling you, Jaques drinks the
wine. Says Donna to him—
“How does your prisoner come on, and what do you
give him to eat?”
“Why he comes on very well. I take him plenty of
bread and water once every day.”
“Poor nourishment, Jaques! Do you think it would be
any harm, if you was in his place, to give you something
more nourishing now and then!”
“No, I don't think it would, if it was not found out
by the Viceroy.”
“And how can it be found out? I will give you a little
wine and coffee, and here, take the key and tell Dennis
to bring a pound or two of cheese out of the old side-board,
and come to me directly, before my father returns
home.”
“Maybe I wasn't into the side-board quick, for once.”
“And, do you hear, if any one asks you where you
are going with it, say Donna is sending it to a poor
neighbour—quick, now, off!”
“So she packed him off before he had time to say his
sowl was his own!”
“I am glad to hear it, Dennis: and was it your lady
that sent me my breakfast?”
“Faith! and who else would send it but her? Do you
think I would tell her you was so troubled that you could
not ate? And bless your swate sowl, here's a bottle of
wine in my pocket! and here in my 'tother pocket is a
bottle of oil for your flickering lamp. And my lady
says you must have books to read, and she has enough
of them too! She says they belonged to her mother.
“But I'll tell you what—we must carry on the flam.
My lady says to me, says she—`we must kape it sacret,
about the young man's getting well, or they'll take you
away.' And that would be a pity says I, to let him come
under them black-hearted guards that never had a drap
o' warm blood in their bodies, and so Donna we will kape
them in ignorance!”
“And your lady has sent something comfortable to
my friend?”
“Long life to her, and that's what she has!”
“She must be an angel, that lady of yours, I wish I
could see her!”
“What if I should tell you now, that you have seen
her! Would'nt you think that strange?”
“If I ever have, I did not observe her. I have been
so strictly guarded since I entered the city, that I have
had no opportunity of seeing any thing.”
“But what if I was to tell you that she has been in
here when you was sick, and brought her maids with
and chocolate, and wine, and wet your face with hartshorn,
and gave me twenty charges about you. Och! its
all because she has Irish blood in her veins!”
This brought to my mind an apparition, which appeared
to me, during my illness. I thought a divine looking
female stood over me, and seemed to regard me with uncommon
concern; but of her I had but a faint recollection.
“Your lady is beautiful, then,” said I, “for I think
now I recollect her.”
“Indeed is she, then, as an angel. Oh, if you was
to see her rosy cheeks, and her eyes as black as a sloe.”
Finding I had touched the right string of Dennis'
heart, and desirous of availing myself of the amusement
his conversation afforded me, I reminded him of
his promise to finish the narrative of his mistress and
her mother's lives. “But, in the first place, Dennis,
tell me how it happened that you were sent to attend me,
at all.”
Taking up some cheese, as I spoke, “Aye, that's as
good Cheshire as ever crossed the salt seas; and do
taste a drop of wine. My lady said you must drink
hearty. Well, I was going to tell you all about my lady
and her mother, and how we come to lave Ireland;
but you want to know what made 'em sind me to
wait on you. Why, sure, I tould you that before. They
began to think you would die on their hands, and got
scared, and thought the people in the States would find
it out and make a rout about it; and the man didn't understand
you, and they sint me to you because I could
spake Inglish and tell what you said; and I just happened
to come in the nick of time. If it hadn't been for
me, and Donna Leanora, it would have been all over
with you, before now.”
“There was a large party of us, Dennis, when I was
made prisoner. Did you ever hear what became of
them?”
“Why, no, I can't say as I did hear what become of
them; but I heard my lady say how they had a sharp engagement
with them; but I'll ax her more about it. Do
to ax me, the first thing, if the gintleman drank any
of it.”
“Well, Dennis, I will, for her sake; and the next
time you come, bring me the books you spoke of.”
“Well, I was goin to tell you about thim same books,
too; and how my lady's mother, rest her soul, come to
buy them.”
Wishing to turn the channel of his discourse, I renewed
my request to hear the particulars of his lady's
family;—when Dennis seemed to be balancing in his
mind, whether he should begin the story that day, or
postpone it to another; and finally said he would put it
off to another time, as it would detain him too long from
his mistress, who would, by this time, be looking for
his return.
As he turned to go out, I reminded him of the books,
and also, if it was in his power, to bring me pen, ink,
and paper. He bowed, and withdrew.
| CHAPTER V. The Tennessean | |