A Volunteer with Pike The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His Love for the Fair Senorita Vallois

Excerpt

THE ROSE IN THE MIRE

The first time I was blessed with a sight of the señorita was on the day of my arrival in the Federal City,—in fact, it was upon my arrival. An inquiry in the neighborhood of the President's House for my sole acquaintance in the city, Senator Adair of Kentucky, had resulted in my being directed to Conrad's boarding house on the Capitol Hill.

In the Fall of 1805 Indian Summer had lingered on through the month of November. As a consequence, so I had been informed, Pennsylvania Avenue was in a state of unprecedented passableness for the season. Yet as, weary and travel-begrimed, I urged my jaded nag along the broad way of yellow mud toward the majestic Capitol on its lofty hill, I observed more than one coach and chariot in trouble from the chuck-holes of semi-liquid clay.

It was midway of the avenue that I came upon her coach, fast as a grounded flatboat, both of the forewheels being mired to the hub. The driver, a blear-eyed fellow, sat tugging at the reins and alternately plying the whip and swearing villanously. I have ever been a lover of horseflesh, and it cut me to see the sleek-coated, spirited pair plunge and strain at the harness, in their brave efforts to perform a task utterly beyond them.

I drew rein alongside. The driver stopped his cursing to stare at me, purple-faced.

"Are you blind drunk?" I demanded. "They'll never make it without a lift to the wheels."

"Lift!" he spluttered—"lift! Git along, ye greasy cooncap!"

He raised his whip as if to strike me. I reined my horse within arm's-length.

"Put down that whip, or I'll put you down under the wheel," I said cheerfully. He looked me in the eye for a moment; then he dropped his gaze, and thrust the whipstock into its socket. "Good! You are well advised. Now keep your mouth shut, and get off your coat."

Again I smiled, and again he obeyed. We Western men have a reputation on the seaboard. It may have been this, or it may have been the fact that my buckskin shirt draped a pair of lean shoulders quite a bit broader than the average. At the least, the fellow kept his mouth closed and started to strip off his coat.

I rode over to the nearest fence and borrowed two of the top rails. Returning, I found the fellow in his shirt-sleeves. Yet he seemed not over-willing to jump down into the mud. One more smile fetched him. He took his rail and descended on the far side, muttering, while I swung off at the head of his lathered team and stroked them. Once they had been soothed and quieted, I dropped back, took the reins in hand, and thrust my rail beneath the hub of the wheel. I heard the driver do the same on his side.

"Ready?" I called.

"Ready, sir!" he answered.

A voice came from over my shoulder "Por Dios! It is not possible, señor, to lift. First I will descend."

The knowledge that I had put my shoulder to the wheel for a Spaniard caused my tightening muscles to relax in disgust. But the don had spoken courteously, his one thought being to relieve us of his weight, at the risk of ruining his aristocratic boots....