Gustave Aimard
The Red Track: A Story of Social Life in Mexico

CHAPTER XI.
THE PASEO DE BUCARELI

Mexico is a country of extensive prospects and magnificent views; and the poet Carpio is right when he says enthusiastically, in the poem in which he sings the praises of his country —

"Qué magníficos tienes horizontes!"

In truth, the prospect is the first and greatest beauty of Mexico.

The plateau of Mexico is situated exactly in the centre of a circle of mountains. On all sides the landscape is bounded by admirable peaks, whose snowy crests soar above the clouds, and in the golden beams of the setting sun they offer the most sublime pictures of the imposing and grand Alpine nature.

In the general description we attempted of Mexico we omitted to allude to its promenades, of which we intended previously to give a detailed account.

In Europe, and especially in France, promenades are wanting in the interior of towns; and it is only during the last few years that Paris has possessed any worthy of a capital. In Spain, on the contrary, the smallest market town has at least one alameda, where, after the torrid heat of the day, the inhabitants breathe the evening breeze, and rest from their labours. Alameda, a soft and graceful word to pronounce, which we might be tempted to take for Arabic, and to which some ill-informed scholars, unacquainted with Spanish, attribute a Latin origin, while it is simply Castilian, and literally signifies "a place planted with poplars."

The Alameda of Mexico is one of the most beautiful in America. It is situated at one of the extremities of the city, and forms a long square, with a wall of circumvallation bordered by a deep ditch, whose muddy, fetid waters, owing to the negligence of the government, exhale pestilential miasmas. At each corner of the promenade a gate offers admission to carriages, riders, and pedestrians, who walk silently beneath a thick awning of verdure, formed by willows, elms, and poplars that border the principal road. These trees are selected with great tact, and are always green, for although the leaves are renewed, it takes place gradually and imperceptibly, so that the branches are never entirely stripped of their foliage.

Numerous walks converge to open spots adorned with gushing fountains, and clumps of jessamine, myrtle, and rose bushes, surrounded by stone benches for the tired promenaders. Statues, unfortunately far below mediocrity in their execution, stand at the entrance of each walk; but, thanks to the deep shadow, the whistling of the evening breeze in the foliage, the buzz of the hummingbirds flying from flower to flower, and the harmonious strains of the cenzontles hidden in the fragrant clumps, you gradually forget those unlucky statues, and fall into a gentle reverie, during which the mind is borne to unknown regions, and seems no longer connected with earth.

But Mexico is a thorough country of contrasts. At each step barbarism elbows the most advanced civilization. Hence all the carriages, after driving a few times round the Alameda, take the direction of the Paseo de Bucareli, and the promenaders spread over a walk, in the Centre of which there is a large window in the Wall, protected by rusty iron bars, and through which come puffs of poisoned air. It is the window of the Deadhouse, into which are daily thrown pell-mell the bodies of men, women, and children, assassinated during the previous night, hideous, bloody, and disfigured by death! What a brilliant, what a delicious idea, to have placed the Deadhouse exactly between the two city walks!

The Paseo, or promenade, of Bucareli – so called after the Viceroy who gave it to Mexico – resembles the Champs Elysées of Paris. It is, in reality, merely a wide road, with no other ornament than a double row of willow and beech trees, with two circular places, in the centre of which are fountains, adorned with detestable allegorical statues and stone benches for pedestrians.

At the entrance of the Paseo de Bucareli has been placed an equestrian statue of Charles IV., which in 1824 adorned the Plaza Mayor of Mexico. When the Emperor Iturbide fell, this monument was removed from the square and placed in the University Palace yard – a lesson, we may here remark, given by a comparatively barbarous people to civilized nations, who in revolutions, as a first trial of liberty, and forgetting that history records everything in her imperishable annals, carry their Vandalism so far as to destroy everything that recalls the government they have overthrown. Owing to the intelligent moderation of the Mexicans, the promenaders can still admire, at the Bucareli, this really remarkable statue, due to the talent of the Spanish sculptor, Manuel Tolsa, and cast in one piece by Salvador de la Vega. The sight of this masterpiece ought to induce the Mexican municipality to remove the pitiable statues which disgrace the two finest promenades in the city.

From the Paseo de Bucareli a magnificent prospect is enjoyed of the panorama of mountains bathed in the luminous vapours of night; you perceive, through the arches of the gigantic aqueduct the white fronts of the haciendas clinging to the sides of the Sierra, the fields of Indian corn bending softly before the breeze, and the snowy peaks of the volcanoes, crowned with mist, and lost in the sky.

It is not till night has almost set in that the promenaders, leaving the Alameda, proceed to the Bucareli, where the carriages take two or three turns, and then equipages, riders, and pedestrians, retire one after the other. The promenade is deserted, the entire crowd, just now so gay and noisy, has disappeared as if by enchantment, and you only see between the trees some belated promenader, who, wrapped in his cloak, and with eye and ear on the watch, is hastily returning home, for, after nightfall, the thieves take possession of the promenade, and without the slightest anxiety about the serenos and celadores appointed to watch over the public security, they carry on their trade with a boldness which the certainty of impunity can alone engender.

It was evening, and, as usual, the Alameda was crowded; handsome carriages, brilliant riders, and modest pedestrians were moving backwards and forwards, with cries, laughter, and joyous calls, as they sought or chased each other in the walks. Monks, soldiers, officers, men of fashion, and leperos, were mixed together, carelessly smoking their cigars and cigarettes under each other's noses, with the recklessness and negligence peculiar to southern nations.

Suddenly, the first stroke of the Oración broke through the air. At the sound of the Angelus-bell, as if the entire crowd had been struck by an enchanter's wand, horses, carriages, and pedestrians stopped, the seated citizens left the benches on which they were resting, and a solemn silence fell on all; every person took off his hat, crossed himself, and for four or five minutes this crowd, an instant before so noisy, remained dumb and silent. But the last stroke of the Oración had scarce died away, ere horses and carriages set out again; the shouts, the songs, and talking, became louder than before; each resumed the sentence at the point where he had broken it off.

By degrees, however, the promenaders proceeded toward the Bucareli: the carriages became scarcer, and by the time night had quite set in, the Alameda was completely deserted.

A horseman, dressed in a rich Campesino costume, and mounted on a magnificent horse, which he managed with rare skill, then entered the Alameda, along which he galloped for about twenty minutes, examining the sidewalks, the clumps of trees, and the densest bushes: in a word, he seemed to be looking for somebody or something.

However, after a while, whether he had convinced himself that his search would have no result, or for some other motive, he gave the click of the tongue peculiar to the Mexican jinetes, lifted his horse which started at an amble, and proceeded toward the Paseo de Bucareli, after bowing sarcastically to some ill-looking horsemen who were beginning to prowl round him, but whom his vigorous appearance and haughty demeanour had hitherto kept at arm's length.

Although the darkness was too dense at this moment for it to be possible to see the horseman's face distinctly, which was in addition half covered by the brim of his vicuna hat, all about him evidenced strength and youth; he was armed as if for a nocturnal expedition, and had on his saddle, in spite of police regulations, a thin, carefully rolled up reata.

We will say, parenthetically, that the reata is considered in Mexico so dangerous a weapon, that it requires special permission to carry one at the saddle-bow, in the streets of Mexico.

The salteadores, who occupy the streets after nightfall, and reign with undisputed sway over them, employ no other weapon to stop the persons they wish to plunder. They cast the running knot round their necks, dash forward at full speed, and the unlucky man, half strangled, and dragged from the saddle, falls unresistingly into their hands.

At the moment when the traveller we are following reached the Bucareli, the last carriages were leaving it, and it was soon as deserted as the Alameda. He galloped up and down the promenade twice or thrice, looking carefully down the side rides, and at the end of his third turn a horseman, coming from the Alameda, passed on his right hand, giving him in a low voice the Mexican salute, "Santísima noche, caballero!"

Although this sentence had nothing peculiar about it, the horseman started, and immediately turning his horse round, he started in pursuit of the person who had thus greeted him. Within a minute the two horsemen were side by side; the first comer, so soon as he saw that he was followed, checked his horse's pace, as if with the intention of entering into the most direct communication with the person he had addressed.

"A fine night for a ride, señor," the first horseman said, politely raising his hand to his hat.

"It is," the second answered, "although it is beginning to grow late."

"The moment is only the better chosen for certain private conversation."

The second horseman looked around, and bending over to the speaker, said —

"I almost despaired of meeting you."

"Did I not let you know that I should come?"

"That is true; but I feared that some sudden obstacle – "

"Nothing ought to impede an honest man in accomplishing a sacred duty," the first horseman answered, with an emphasis on the words.

"The other bowed with an air of satisfaction. Then," he said, "I can count on you, Ño – ."

"No names here, señor," the other sharply interrupted him. "Caspita, an old wood ranger like you, a man who has long been a Tigrero, ought to remember that the trees have ears and the leaves eyes."

"Yes, you are right. I should and do remember it; but permit me to remark that if it is not possible for us to talk about business here, I do not know exactly where we can do so."

"Patience, señor, I wish to serve you, as you know, for you were recommended to me by a man to whom I can refuse nothing. Let yourself, therefore, be guided by me, if you wish us to succeed in this affair, which, I confess to you at once, offers enormous difficulties, and must be managed with the greatest prudence."

"I ask nothing better; still you must tell me what I ought to do."

"For the present very little; merely follow me at a distance to the place where I purpose taking you."

"Are we going far?"

"Only a few paces; behind the barracks of the Acordades, in a small street called the Callejón del Pájaro."

"Hum! and what am I to do in this street?"

"What a suspicious man you are!" the first horseman said with a laugh. "Listen to me then. About the middle of the Callejón I shall stop before a house of rather poor appearance; a man will come and hold my horse while I enter. A few minutes later you will pull up there; after assuring yourself that you are not followed you will dismount; give your horse to the man who is holding mine, and without saying a word to him, or letting him see your face, you will enter the house, and shut the door after you. I shall be in the yard, and will lead you to a place where we shall be able to talk in safety. Does that suit you?"

"Famously; although I do not understand why I, who have set foot in Mexico today for the first time, should find it necessary to employ such mighty precautions."

The first horseman laughed sarcastically.

"Do you wish to succeed?" he asked.

"Of course," the other exclaimed energetically, "even if it cost me my life."

"In that case do as you are recommended."

"Go on, I follow you."

"Is that settled? you understand all about it?"

"I do."

The second horseman then checked his steed to let the first one go on ahead, and both keeping a short distance apart, proceeded at a smart trot toward the statue of Charles IV., which, as we said, stands at the entrance of the Paseo.

While conversing, the two horsemen had forgotten the advanced hour of the night, and the solitude that surrounded them. At the moment when the first rider passed the equestrian statue, a slip knot fell on his shoulders, and he was roughly dragged from his saddle.

"Help!" he shouted in a choking voice.

The second rider had seen all; quick as thought he whirled his lasso round his head, and galloping at full speed, hurled it after the Salteador at the moment when he passed twenty yards from him.

The Salteador was stopped dead, and hurled from his horse; the worthy robber had not suspected that another person beside himself could have a lasso so handy. The horseman, without checking his speed, cut the reata that was strangling his companion, and, turning back, dragged the robber after him.

The first horseman so providentially saved, freed himself from the slip knot that choked him, and, hardly recovered from the alarm he had experienced from his heavy fall, he whistled to his horse, which came up at once, remounted as well as he could, and rejoined his liberator, who had stopped a short distance off.

"Thanks," he said to him, "henceforth we are stanch friends; you have saved my life, and I shall remember it."

"Nonsense," the other answered, "I only did what you would have done in my place."

"That is possible, but I shall be grateful to you on the word of a Carnero," he exclaimed, forgetting in his joy the hint he had given a short time previously, not to make use of names, and revealing his own incognito; "is the pícaro dead?"

"Very nearly so, I fancy; what shall we do with him?"

"Make a corpse of him," the capataz said bluntly. "We are only two paces from the deadhouse, and he can be carried there without difficulty. Though he is an utter scoundrel and tried to assassinate me, the police are so well managed in our unhappy country that if we committed the imprudence of letting him live, we should have interminable disputes with the magistrates."

Then, dismounting, he stooped over the bandit, stretched senseless at his feet, removed his lasso, and coolly dashed out his brains with a blow of his pistol butt. Immediately after this summary execution, the two men left the Paseo de Bucareli, but this time side by side, through fear of a new accident.

CHAPTER XII.
A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION

Directly on emerging from the Paseo, the two men separated, as had been agreed on between them; that is to say, the capataz went ahead, followed at a respectful distance by Martial the Tigrero, whom the reader has doubtless recognized.

All happened as the capataz had announced. The streets were deserted, the horsemen only met a few half sleeping serenos leaning against the walls, and were only crossed by a patrol of celadores walking with a hurried step, and who seemed more inclined to avoid them, than to try and discover the motives that caused them thus to ride about the streets of the capital at night, in defiance of the law.

The Tigrero entered the Callejón del Pájaro, and about the middle of the street saw the capataz's horse held by an ill-looking fellow, who gazed curiously at him. Don Martial, following the instructions given him, pulled his hat over his eyes to foil the mozo's curiosity, stopped before the door, dismounted, threw his bridle to the fellow, and, without saying a word to him, resolutely entered the house and carefully closed the door after him.

He then found himself in utter darkness, but after groping his way, which was not difficult for him to do, as all Mexican houses are built nearly on the same model, he pushed forward. After crossing the zaguán, he entered a square yard on which several doors looked; one of these doors was open, and a man was standing on the threshold with a cigarette in his mouth. It was Carnero.

The tiger-slayer went up to him; the other made room, and he walked on. The capataz took him by the hand and whispered, "Come with me."

In spite of the protestations of devotion previously made by the capataz, the Tigrero in his heart was somewhat alarmed at the manner in which he was introduced into this mysterious house; but as he was young, vigorous, well armed, brave, and resolved, if necessary, to sell his life dearly, he yielded his hand Unhesitatingly to Carnero, and allowed him to guide him while seeking to pierce the darkness that surrounded him.

But all the windows were hermetically closed with shutters, which allowed no gleam of light to enter from without.

His guide led him through several rooms, the floors of which were covered with matting that deadened the sound of footsteps; he took him up a flight of stairs, and opening a door with a key he took from his pocket, conducted him into a room faintly lighted by a lamp placed before a statue of the Virgin, standing in one corner of the room, on a species of pedestal attached to the wall, and covered with extremely delicate lace.

"Now," said Carnero, after closing the door, from which the Tigrero noticed that he removed the key, "draw up a butaca, sit down and let us talk, for we are in safety." Don Martial followed the advice given him, and after carefully installing himself in a butaca, looked anxiously around him.

The room in which he found himself was rather spacious, furnished tastefully and richly; several valuable pictures hung on the walls, which were covered with embossed leather, while the furniture consisted of splendid carved ebony or mahogany tables, sideboards, chiffonniers, and butacas. On the floor was an Indian petate, several books were scattered over the tables, and valuable plate was arranged on the sideboard. In short, this room displayed a proper comprehension of comfort, and the two windows, with their Moorish jalousies, gave admission to the pure breeze which greatly refreshed the atmosphere.

The capataz lighted two candles at the Virgin's lamp, placed them on the table, and then fetching two bottles and two silver cups, which he placed before the Tigrero, he drew up a butaca, and seated himself opposite his guest.

"Here is sherry which I guarantee to be real Xeres de los Caballeros; this other bottle contains chinquirito, and both are at your service," he said, with a laugh; "whether you have a weakness for sugar cane spirits, or prefer wine."

"Thanks," Don Martial replied, "but I do not feel inclined to drink."

"You would not wish to insult me by refusing to hobnob with me?"

"Very well; if you will permit me, I will take a few drops of chinquirito in water, solely to prove to you that I am sensible of your politeness."

"All right," the capataz continued, as he handed him a crystal decanter, covered with curiously worked silver filagree; "help yourself."

When they had drunk, the capataz a glass of sherry, which he sipped like a true amateur, and Don Tigrero a few drops of chinquirito drowned in a glass of water, the capataz placed his glass again on the table with a smack of his lips, and said —

"Now, I must give you a few words in explanation of the slightly mysterious way in which I brought you here, in order to dispel any doubts which may have involuntarily invaded your mind."

"I am listening to you," the Tigrero answered.

"Take a cigar first, they are excellent." And he lit one, after pushing the bundle over to Don Martial: the latter selected one, and soon the two men were enveloped in a cloud of thin and fragrant smoke.

"We are in the mansion of General Don Sebastian Guerrero," the capataz continued.

"What?" the Tigrero exclaimed, with a start of uneasiness.

"Re-assure yourself, no one saw you enter, and your presence here is quite unknown, for the simple reason that I brought you in by my private entrance."

"I do not understand you."

"And yet it is very easy to explain; the house I led you through belongs to me. For reasons too long to tell you, and which would interest you but slightly, during Don Sebastian's absence as Governor of Sonora, I had a passage made, and established a communication between my house and this mansion. Everybody save myself is ignorant of the existence of this communication, which," he added, with a glowing smile, "may at a given moment be of great utility to me. The room in which we now are forms part of the suite I occupy in the mansion, in which the general, I am proud to say, has never yet set foot. The man who took your horse is devoted to me, and even were he to betray me, it would be of little consequence to me, for the secret door of the passage is so closely concealed that I have no fear of its being discovered. Hence you see that you have nothing to fear here, where your presence is unknown."

"But suppose you were to be sent for, through the general happening to want you suddenly?"

"Certainly, but I have foreseen that; it is my system never to leave anything to chance. Although it has never happened yet, no one can enter here without my being informed soon enough to get rid of any person who may be with me, supposing that, for some reason or another, that person did not desire to be seen."

"That is capitally arranged, and I am happy to see that you are a man of prudence."

"Prudence is, as you know, señor, the mother of safety; and in Mexico, before all other countries, the proverb receives its application at every moment."

The Tigrero bowed politely, but in the fashion of a man who considers that the speaker has dwelt sufficiently long on one subject, and wishes to see him pass to another. The capataz appeared to read this almost imperceptible hint on Don Martial's face, and continued with a smile —

"But enough on that head, so let us pass, if you have no objection, to the real purpose of our interview. A man, whose name it is unnecessary to mention, but to whom, as I have already had the honour of telling you, I am devoted body and soul, sent you to me to obtain certain information you require, and which he supposes I am in a position to give, I will now add, that what passed between us this evening, and the generous way in which you rushed to my assistance, render it my bounden duty not only to give you this information, but also to help you with all my might in the success of the projects you are meditating, whatever those projects may be, and the dangers I may incur in aiding you. So, now speak openly with me; conceal nothing from me and you will only have to praise my frankness towards you."

"Señor," the Tigrero answered, with considerable emotion, "I thank you the more heartily for your generous offer, for you know as well as I do what perils are connected with the carrying out of these plans, to say nothing of their success."

"What you are saying is true, but it will be better, I fancy, for the present, for me to assume to be ignorant of them, so as to leave you the entire liberty you need for the questions you have to ask me."

"Yes, yes," he said, shaking his head sadly, "my position is so precarious, the struggle I am engaged in is so wild, that, although I am supported by sincere friends, I cannot be too prudent. Tell me, then, what you know as to the fate of the unfortunate Doña Anita de Torrés. Is she really dead, as the report spread alleged?"

"Do you know what happened in the cavern after your fall down the precipice?"

"Alas! no; my ignorance is complete as to the facts that occurred after I was abandoned as dead."

Carnero reflected for a moment. "Listen, Don Martial: before I can answer categorically the question you have asked me, I must tell you a long story. Are you ready to hear it?"

"Yes," the other answered, without hesitation, "for there are many things I am ignorant of, which I ought to know. So speak without further delay, señor, and though some parts of the narrative will be most painful to me, hide nothing from me, I implore you!"

"You shall be obeyed. Moreover, the night is not yet far advanced; time does not press us, and in two hours you will know all."

"I am impatiently waiting for you to begin."

The capataz remained for some considerable time plunged in deep and serious reflection. At length he raised his head, leant forward, and setting his left elbow on the table, began as follows: —

"At the time when the facts occurred I am about to tell you, I was living at the Hacienda del Palmar, of which I was steward. Hence I was only witness to a portion of the facts, and only know the rest from hearsay. When the Comanches arrived, guided by the white men, Don Sylva de Torrés was lying mortally wounded, holding in his stiffened arms his daughter Anita, who had suddenly gone mad on seeing you roll down the precipice in the grasp of the Indian chief. Don Sebastian Guerrero was the only relation left to the hapless young lady, and hence she was taken to his hacienda."

"What?" Don Martial exclaimed in surprise. "Don Sebastian is a relation of Doña Anita?"

"Did you not know that?"

"I had not the slightest idea of it; and yet I had for several years been closely connected with the Torrés family, for I was their tigrero."

"I know it. Well, this is how the relationship exists: Don Sebastian married a niece of Don Sylva's, so you see they were closely connected. Still, for reasons never thoroughly made known, a few years after the general's marriage, a dispute broke out which led to a total suspension of intimacy between the two families. That is probably the reason why you never heard of the connection existing between the Sylvas and the Torrés."

The Tigrero shook his head. "Go on," he said. "How did the general receive his relation?"

"He was not at the hacienda at the time; but an express was sent off to him, and I was the man. The general came post haste, seemed greatly moved at the double misfortune that had befallen the young lady, gave orders for her to be kindly treated, appointed several women to wait on her, and returned to his post at Sonora, where events of the utmost gravity summoned him."

"Yes, yes, I have heard of the French invasion, and that their leader was shot by the general's orders. I presume you are alluding to that?"

"Yes. Almost immediately after these events the general returned to the Palmar. He was no longer the same man. The horrible death of his daughter rendered him gloomier and harsher to any person whom chance brought into contact with him. For a whole week he remained shut up in his apartments, refusing to see any of us; but, at last, one day he sent for me to inquire as to what had happened at the hacienda during his absence. I had but little to tell him, for life was too simple and uniform at this remote dwelling for anything at all interesting for him to have occurred. Still he listened without interruption, with his head in his hands, and apparently taking great interest in what I told him, especially when it referred to poor Doña Anita, whose gentle interesting madness drew tears from us rough men, when we saw her wandering, pale and white as a spectre, about the huerta, murmuring in a low voice one name, ever the same, which none of us could overhear, and raising to heaven her lovely face, bathed in tears. The general let me say all I had to say, and when I ended he, too, remained silent for some time. At length, raising his head, he looked at me for a moment angrily."

"'What are you doing there?' he asked."

"'I am waiting,' I answered, 'for the orders it may please your excellency to give me.'"

"He looked at me for a few more moments as if trying to read my very thoughts, and then laid his hand on my arm. 'Carnero,' he said to me, 'you have been a long time in my service, but take care lest I should have to dismiss you. I do not like,' he said, with a stress on the words, 'servants who are too intelligent and too clear-sighted,' and when I tried to excuse myself, he added, 'Not a word – profit by the advice I have given you, and now lead me to Doña Anita's apartments.'"

"I obeyed with hanging head; the general remained an hour with the young lady, and I never knew what was said between them. It is true that now and then I heard the general speaking loudly and angrily, and Doña Anita weeping, and apparently making some entreaty to him; but that was all, for prudence warned me to keep at too great a distance to overhear a single word. When the general came out he was pale, and sharply ordered me to prepare everything for his departure. The morrow at daybreak we set out for Mexico, and Doña Anita followed us, carried in a palanquin. The journey was a long one, but so long as it lasted the general did not once speak to the young lady, or approach the side of her palanquin. So soon as we reached our journey's end, Doña Anita was carried to the Convent of the Bernardines, where she had been educated, and the good sisters received her with tears of sorrowful sympathy. The general, owing to the influence he enjoyed, easily succeeded in getting himself appointed guardian to the young lady, and immediately assumed the management of her estates, which, as you doubtless are aware, are considerable, even in this country where large fortunes are so common."

"I know it," said the Tigrero, with a sigh.

"All these matters settled," the capataz continued, "the general returned to Sonora to arrange his affairs, and hand over the government to the person appointed to succeed him, and who started for his post some days previously. I will not tell you what happened then, as you know it; besides, we have only been back in Mexico for a fortnight, and you and your friends followed our track from the Rocky Mountains."