Authors: Mayne Reid
There, too, I behold gigantic thistles (cardonales) and mimosas, both shrubby and arborescent-the tree-mimosa, and the sensitive-plant (Mimosa frutescens), that shrinks at my approach, and closes its delicate leaflets until I have passed out of sight. This is the favourite land of the acacia; and immense tracts, covered with its various species, form impenetrable thickets (chapparals ). I distinguish in these thickets the honey-locust, with its long purple legumes, the "algarobo" (carob-tree), and the thorny "mezquite"; and, rising over all the rest, I descry the tall, slender stem of theFouquiera splendens , with panicles of cube-shaped crimson flowers.
There is less of animal life here; but even these wild ridges have their denizens. The cochineal insect crawls upon the cactus leaf, and huge winged ants build their clay nests upon the branches of the acacia-tree. The ant-bear squats upon the ground, and projects his glutinous tongue over the beaten highway, where the busy insects rob the mimosse of their aromatic leaves. The armadillo, with his bands and rhomboidal scales, takes refuge in the dry recesses of the rocks, or, clewing himself up, rolls over the cliff to escape his pursuer. Herds of cattle, half wild, roam through the glassy glades or over the tufted ridges, lowing for water; and black vultures (zopilotes) sail through the cloudless heavens, waiting for some scene of death to be enacted in the thickets below.
Here, too, I pass through scenes of cultivation. Here is the hut of the peon and the rancho of the small proprietor; but they are structures of a more substantial kind than in the region of the palm. They are of stone. Here, too, is the hacienda, with its low white walls and prison-like windows; and the pueblita, with its church and cross and gaily-painted steeple. Here the Indian corn takes the place of the sugarcane, and I ride through wide fields of the broad-leafed tobacco-plant. Here grow the jalap and the guaiacum, the sweet-scented sassafras and the sanitary copaiba.
I ride onward, climbing steep ridges and descending into chasms (barrancas ) that yawn deeply and gloomily. Many of these are thousands of feet in depth; and the road that enables me to reach their bottoms is often no more than a narrow ledge of the impending cliff, running terrace-like over a foaming torrent.
Still onward and upward I go, until the "foot-hills" are passed, and I enter a defile of the mountains themselves-a pass of the Mexican Andes.
I ride through, under the shadow of dark forests and rocks of blue porphyry. I emerge upon the other side of the sierra. A new scene opens before my eyes-a scene of such soft loveliness that I suddenly rein up my horse, and gaze upon it with mingled feelings of admiration and astonishment. I am looking upon one of the "valles" of Mexico, those great table-plains that lie within the Cordilleras of the Andes, thousands of feet above ocean-level, and, along with these mountains, stretching from the tropic almost to the shores of the Arctic Sea.
The plain before me is level, as though its surface were liquid. I see mountains bounding it on all sides; but there are passes through them that lead into other plains (valus). These mountains have no foot-hills. Theystand up directly from the plain itself, sometimes with sloping conical sides-sometimes in precipitous cliffs.
I ride into the plain and survey its features. There is no resemblance to the land I have left-thetierra caliente . I am now in thetierra templada . New objects present themselves-a new aspect is before, a new atmosphere around me. The air is colder, but it is only the temperature of spring. To me it feels chilly, coming so lately from the hot lands below; and I fold my cloak closely around me, and ride on.
The view is open, for thevalu is almost treeless. The scene is no longer wild. The earth has a cultivated aspect-an aspect of civilisation: for these high plateaux-the tierras templadas -are the seat of Mexican civilisation. Here are the towns-the great cities, with their rich cathedrals and convents-here dwells the bulk of the population. Here the rancho is built of unburnt bricks ( adobe's )-a mud cabin, often inclosed by hedges of the columnar cactus. Here are whole villages of such huts, inhabited by the dark-skinned descendants of the ancient Aztecs.
Fertile fields are around me. I behold the maguey of culture (Agave Americana ), in all its giant proportions. The lance-like blades of the zea maize wave with a rich rustling in the breeze, for here that beautiful plant grows in its greatest luxuriance. Immense plains are covered with wheat, with capsicum, and the Spanish bean (frijoles ). My eyes are gladdened by the sight of roses climbing along the wall or twining the portal. Here, too, the potato (Solanum tuberosum) flourishes in its native soil; the pear and the pomegranate, the quince and the apple, are seen in the orchard; and the cereals of the temperate zone grow side by side with theCucurbitacece of the tropics.
I pass from onevalu into another, by crossing a low ridge of the dividing mountains. Mark the change! A surface of green is before me, reaching on all sides to the mountain foot; and upon this roam countless herds, tended by mounted "vaqueros" (herdsmen).
I pass another ridge, and anothervalid stretches before me. Again a change! A desert of sand, over the surface of which move tall dun columns of swirling dust, like the gigantic phantoms of some spirit-world. I look into another valle , and behold shining waters- lakes like inland seas-with sedgy shores and surrounded by green savannas, and vast swamps covered with reeds and "tulares" (bulrush).
Still another plain, black with lava and the scoriae of extinct volcanoes-black, treeless, and herbless-with not an atom of organic matter upon its desolate surface.
Such are the features of the plateau-land-varied, and vast, and full of wild interest.
I leave it and climb higher-nearer to the sky-up the steep sides of the Cordilleras-up to thetierra fria .
* * *
I stand ten thousand feet above the level of the ocean. I am under the deep shadows of a forest. Huge trunks grow around me, hindering a distant view. Where am I? Not in the tropic, surely, for these trees are of a northernsylva . I recognise the gnarled limbs and lobed leaves of the oak, the silvery branches of the mountain-ash, the cones and needles of the pine. The wind, as it swirls among the dead leaves, causes me to shiver; and high up among the twigs there is the music of winter in its moaning. Yet I am in the torrid zone; and the same sun that now glances coldly through the boughs of the oak, but a few hours before scorched me as it glistened from the fronds of the palm-tree.
The forest opens, and I behold hills under culture-fields of hemp and flax, and the hardy cereals of the frigid zone. The rancho of the husbandman is a log cabin, with shingled roof and long projecting eaves, unlike the dwellings either of the greatvalus or the tierras calientes . I pass the smoking pits of the "carbonero", and I meet the "arriero" with his "atajo" of mules heavily laden with ice of the glaciers. They are passing with their cargoes, to cool the wine-cups in the great cities of the plains.
Upward and upward! The oak is left behind, and the pine grows stunted and dwarfish. The wind blows colder and colder. A wintry aspect is around me.
Upward still. The pine disappears. No vegetable form is seen save the mosses and lichens that cling to the rocks, as within the Arctic Circle. I am on the selvage of the snow-the eternal snow. I walk upon glaciers, and through their translucent mass I behold the lichens growing beneath.
The scene is bleak and desolate, and I am chilled to the marrow of my bones.
Excelsior! excelsior ! The highest point is not yet reached. Through drifts of snow and over fields of ice, up steep ledges, along the slippery escarpment that overhangs the giddy abysm, with wearied knees, and panting breath, and frozen fingers, onward and upward I go. Ha! I have won the goal. I am on the summit!
I stand on the "cumbre" of Orizava-the mountain of the "burning star"- more than three miles above the ocean level. My face is turned to the east, and I look downward. The snow, the cincture of lichens and naked rocks, the dark belt of pines, the lighter foliage of the oaks, the fields of barley, the waving maize, the thickets of yucca and acacia trees, the palm forest, the shore, the sea itself with its azure waves- all these at a single vision! From the summit of Orizava to the shores of the Mexican Sea, I glance through every gradation of the thermal line. I am looking, as it were, from the pole to the equator!
I am alone. My brain is giddy. My pulse vibrates irregularly, and my heart beats with an audible distinctness. I am oppressed with a sense of my own nothingness-an atom, almost invisible, upon the breast of the mighty earth.
I gaze and listen. I see, but I hear not. Here is sight, but no sound. Around me reigns an awful stillness-the sublime silence of the Omnipotent, who alone is here.
Hark! the silence is broken! Was it the rumbling of thunder? No. It was the crash of the falling avalanche. I tremble at its voice. It is the voice of the Invisible-the whisper of a God!
I tremble and worship.
* * *
Reader, could you thus stand upon the summit of Orizava, and look down to the shores of the Mexican Gulf, you would have before you, as on a map, the scene of our "adventures."
* * *
Note 1. Anahuac is Mexico.
Note 2. Jornada is a day's journey.
Note 3. Pescador is a fisherman.
Note 4. Vomito is yellow-fever.
Note 5. Mexico is divided into three regions, known as the "hot" (caliente ), "temperate" (templada), and "cold" (fria).
Note 6. Carbonero is charcoal-burner.
Note 7. Arriero is mule-driver.
* * *
After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading to Orizava.
This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz.
After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge.
With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out before us like a map.
Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon the blue background of the sea.
The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect at once southern and picturesque.
Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with floating banners-the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain, waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs.
Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened along the combing of the surf.
To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef.
Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms-the picket sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft, yielding sand-drift.
It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps of the city, heretofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and glistened along the walls.
Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the guard, "Centinela! alerte!" (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp challenge, "Quien viva?" (Who goes there?)
Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women, was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor of the ball-room.
It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.
As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.
"Look out!" cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.
Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a twenty-four.
The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.
"Try it again!" cried one.
"That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing.
"More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested an officer.
"Oysters, too-only think of it!" said Clayley.
"Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the town!"
This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.