Tracks Of A Rolling Stone - Henry J. Coke (novels in english .TXT) 📗
- Author: Henry J. Coke
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There Was No Saying, Etc., Etc. . . . In Short We Had Better
Stay Where We Were Till They Got Through. Fred Laughed At
The Fellow's Alarm, And Told Him He Might Stop If He Liked,
But We Meant To Go On.
As Usual, When We Reached The Next Stage, The Diggers Were
Before Us; And When Our Men Began To Unsaddle At A Hut About
Fifty Yards From Where They Were Feeding Their Horses, One Of
Them, The Biggest Blackguard To Look At Of The Lot, And
Though The Fiercest Probably The Greatest Cur, Shouted At Us
To Put The Saddles On Again And 'Get Out Of That.' He Had
Warned Us In The Morning That They'd Had Enough Of Us, And,
With A Volley Of Oaths, Advised Us To Be Off. Fred, Who Was
In His Shirt-Sleeves, Listened At First With A Look Of
Surprise At Such Cantankerous Unreasonableness; But When The
Ruffian Fell To Swear And Threaten, He Burst Into One Of His
Contemptuous Guffaws, Turned His Back And Began To Feed His
Horse With A Corncob. Thus Insulted, The Digger Ran Into The
Hut (As I Could See) To Get His Rifle. I Snatched Up My Own,
Which I Had Been Using Every Day To Practise At The Large
Iguanas And Macaws, And, Well Protected By My Horse, Called
Out As I Covered Him, 'This Is A Double-Barrelled Rifle. If
You Raise Yours I'll Drop You Where You Stand.' He Was
Forestalled And Taken Aback. Probably He Meant Nothing But
Bravado. Still, The Situation Was A Critical One. Obviously
I Could Not Wait Till He Had Shot My Friend. But Had It Come
To Shooting There Would Have Been Three Left, Unless My
Second Barrel Had Disposed Of Another. Fortunately The
'Boss' Of The Digging Party Gauged The Gravity Of The Crisis
At A Glance; And Instead Of Backing Him Up As Expected, Swore
At Him For A 'Derned Fool,' And Ordered Him To Have No More
To Do With Us.
After That, As We Drew Near To The City, The Country Being
More Thickly Populated, We No Longer Clashed.
This Is Not A Guide-Book, And I Have Nothing To Tell Of That
Readers Would Not Find Better Described In Their 'Murray.'
We Put Up In An Excellent Hotel Kept By M. Arago, The Brother
Of The Great French Astronomer. The Only Other Travellers In
It Besides Ourselves Were The Famous Dancer Cerito, And Her
Chapter 32 Pg 172Husband The Violin Virtuoso, St. Leon. Luckily For Me Our
English Minister Was Mr. Percy Doyle, Whom I Had Known As
Attache At Paris When I Was At Larue, And Who Was A Great
Friend Of The De Cubriers. We Were Thus Provided With Many
Advantages For 'Sight-Seeing' In And About The City, And Also
For More Distant Excursions Through Credentials From The
Mexican Authorities. Under These Auspices We Visited The
Silver Mines At Guadalajara, Potosi, And Guanajuata.
The Life In Mexico City Was Delightful, After A Year's Tramp.
The Hotel, As I Have Said, Was To Us Luxurious. My Room
Under The Verandah Opened On To A Large And Beautiful Garden
Partially Enclosed On Two Sides. As I Lay In Bed Of A
Morning Reading Prescott's 'History Of Mexico,' Or Watching
The Brilliant Humming Birds As They Darted From Flower To
Flower, And Listened To The Gentle Plash Of The Fountain, My
Cup Of Enjoyment And Romance Was Brimming Over.
Just Before I Left, An Old Friend Of Mine Arrived From
England. This Was Mr. Joseph Clissold. He Was A
Schoolfellow Of Mine At Sheen. He Had Pulled In The
Cambridge Boat, And Played In The Cambridge Eleven. He
Afterwards Became A Magistrate Either In Australia Or New
Zealand. He Was The Best Type Of The Good-Natured, Level-
Headed, Hard-Hitting Englishman. Curiously Enough, As It
Turned Out, The Greater Part Of The Only Conversation We Had
(I Was Leaving The Day After He Came) Was About The
Brigandage On The Road Between Mexico And Vera Cruz. He Told
Me The Passengers In The Diligence Which Had Brought Him Up
Had Been Warned At Jalapa That The Road Was Infested By
Robbers; And Should The Coach Be Stopped They Were On No
Account To Offer Resistance, For The Robbers Would Certainly
Shoot Them If They Did.
Fred Chose To Ride Down To The Coast, I Went By Coach. This
Held Six Inside And Two By The Driver. Three Of The Inside
Passengers Sat With Backs To The Horses, The Others Facing
Them. My Coach Was Full, And Stifling Hot And Stuffy It Was
Before We Had Done With It. Of The Five Others Two Were Fat
Priests, And For Twenty Hours My Place Was Between Them. But
In One Way I Had My Revenge: I Carried My Loaded Rifle
Between My Knees, And A Pistol In My Belt. The Dismay, The
Terror, The Panic, The Protestations, The Entreaties And
Execrations Of All The Five, Kept Us At Least From Ennui For
Many A Weary Mile. I Doubt Whether The Two Priests Ever
Thumbed Their Breviaries So Devoutly In Their Lives. Perhaps
That Brought Us Salvation. We Reached Vera Cruz Without
Adventure, And In The Autumn Of '51 Fred And I Landed Safely
At Southampton.
Two Months After I Got Back, I Read An Account In The 'Times'
Of 'Joe' Clissold's Return Trip From Mexico. The Coach In
Which He Was Travelling Was Stopped By Robbers. Friend
Joseph Was Armed With A Double-Barrelled Smooth-Bore Loaded
Chapter 32 Pg 173With Slugs. He Considered This On The Whole More Suitable
Than A Rifle. When The Captain Of The Brigands Opened The
Coach Door And, Pistol In Hand, Politely Proffered His
Request, Mr. Joe Was Quite Ready For Him, And Confided The
Contents Of One Barrel To The Captain's Bosom. Seeing The
Fate Of Their Commander, And Not Knowing What Else The Dilly
Might Contain, The Rest Of The Band Dug Spurs Into Their
Horses And Fled. But The Sturdy Oarsman And Smart Cricketer
Was Too Quick For One Of Them - The Horse Followed His
Friends, But The Rider Stayed With His Chief.
Chapter 33 Pg 174
The Following Winter, My Friend, George Cayley, Was Ordered
To The South For His Health. He Went To Seville. I Joined
Him There; And We Took Lodgings And Remained Till The Spring.
As Cayley Published An Amusing Account Of Our Travels, 'Las
Aforjas, Or The Bridle Roads Of Spain,' As This Is More Than
Fifty Years Ago - Before The Days Of Railways And Tourists -
And As I Kept No Journal Of My Own, I Will Make Free Use Of
His.
A Few Words Will Show The Terms We Were On.
I Had Landed At Cadiz, And Had Gone Up The Guadalquivir In A
Steamer, Whose Advent At Seville My Friend Was On The Look-
Out For. He Describes His Impatience For Her Arrival. By
Some Mistake He Is Misinformed As To The Time; He Is A
Quarter Of An Hour Late.
'A Remnant Of Passengers Yet Bustled Around The Luggage,
Arguing, Struggling And Bargaining With A Contentious Company
Of Porters. Alas! H. Was Not To Be Seen Among Them. There
Was Still A Chance; He Might Be One Of The Passengers Who Had
Got Ashore Before My Coming Down, And I Was Preparing To Rush
Back To The City To Ransack The Hotels. Just Then An
Internal Convulsion Shook The Swarm Around The Luggage Pile;
Out Burst A Little Gallego Staggering Under A Huge British
Portmanteau, And Followed By Its Much Desired, And Now Almost
Despaired Of, Proprietor.
'I Saw Him Come Bowling Up The Slope With His Familiar Gait,
Evidently Unconscious Of My Presence, And Wearing That Sturdy
And Almost Hostile Demeanour With Which A True Briton Marches
Chapter 33 Pg 175Into A Strange City Through The Army Of Officious
Importunates Who Never Fail To Welcome The True Briton's
Arrival. As He Passed The Barrier He Came Close To Me In The
Crowd, Still Without Recognising Me, For Though Straight
Before His Nose I Was Dressed In The Costume Of The People.
I Touched His Elbow And He Turned Upon Me With A Look Of
Impatient Defiance, Thinking Me One Persecutor More.
'How Quickly The Expression Changed, Etc., Etc. We Rushed
Into Each Other's Arms, As Much As The Many Great Coats Slung
Over His Shoulders, And The Deep Folds Of Cloak In Which I
Was Enveloped, Would Mutually Permit. Then, Saying More Than
A Thousand Things In A Breath, Or Rather In No Breath At All,
We Set Off In Great Glee For My Lodgings, Forgetting In The
Excitement The Poor Little Porter Who Was Following At Full
Trot, Panting And Puffing Under The Heavy Portmanteau. We
Got Home, But Were No Calmer. We Dined, But Could Not Eat.
We Talked, But The News Could Not Be Persuaded To Come Out
Quick Enough.'
Who Has Not Known What Is Here Described? Who Does Not Envy
The Freshness, The Enthusiasm, Of Such Bubbling Of Warm Young
Hearts? Oh, The Pity Of It! If These Generous Emotions
Should Prove As Transient As Youth Itself. And Then, When
One Of Those Young Hearts Is Turned To Dust, And One Is Left
To Think Of It - Why Then, 'Tis Not Much Comfort To Reflect
That - Nothing In The World Is Commoner.
We Got A Spanish Master And Worked Industriously, Also Picked
Up All The Andalusian We Could, Which Is As Much Like Pure
Castilian As Wold-Yorkshire Is To English. I Also Took
Lessons On The Guitar. Thus Prepared, I Imitated My Friend
And Adopted The Ordinary Costume Of The Andalusian Peasant:
Breeches, Ornamented With Rows Of Silvered Buttons, Gaiters,
A Short Jacket With A Red Flower-Pot And Blue Lily On The
Back, And Elbows With Green And Scarlet Patterns, A Red Faja
Or Sash, And The Sombrero Which I Believe Is
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