Carlos DeFoe

(The following sad story was written by an American who was reared in Mexico, and was still living there in 1910, when he sent the manuscript to John Warren Hunter, then living at San Angelo. It was written in Spanish, and Mr. Hunter translated it. Defoe and Mr. Hunter met in Mexico during the Civil War, and kept up a fairly regular correspondence until the latter's death in January, 1915. We are sure our Frontier Times readers will read this story with much interest. —Editor. )

I was born in Middle Tennessee in 1842. My parents were wealthy, owned a large number of slaves, and being an only son, I was the pet of the household. At the age of eight years, when I most needed the guidance of a father's hand and the tender love of a mother, a great tragedy was enacted in our once happy home; our household was broken up, and a long series of legal proceedings began, which, as I have learned during recent years, dragged their weary length through the courts until long after the close of the great American war. Shortly after this terrible tragedy, I was spirited away to St. Louis, Mo., where I was placed in a Catholic school for boys, and where I experienced only the kindest treatment at the hands of the good fathers who had me in charge, although during my entire stay I was never allowed to appear outside the walls that enclosed the grounds and buildings, and on no occasion was I permitted to be present at any public function held in the school auditorium or elsewhere. On leaving the school I was told by one of the Sisters, who had been one of my teachers, and for whom I had formed a strong attachment, that those in whose care I had been placed had been instructed to look after me with the utmost care and to supply my every reasonable want. When I asked her why they gave me another name and why they did not take me back to my home, she looked at me pityingly and said "Alas! poor child! Perhaps someday you may go home." I remained in this school about two years, and at the end of which time the man who brought me to St. Louis and who had taught me to call him "Uncle," came to the convent one evening, accompanied by his wife, a lady of winning manners, and informed me that we would leave that night for St. Paul, Minnesota. I was greatly elated over the prospect of a change and, with the help of good Father Jerome, it took me only a short time to pack my belongings and be ready for the journey. In the meantime, my so called uncle had purchased a good stout wagon and pair of fine mules and had supplied himself with arms, ammunition, a good tent, and other camp equipage, as if anticipating a long overland journey. It was a late hour in the night when this supposed relative came and called for me, and I distinctly remember the glow of the street lamps as we drove through the city.

Instead of going to St. Paul, we went to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, which place we reached after a long journey. We remained at Leavenworth about a month, and during this time I was at liberty to go where I chose during the day, but was cautioned not to talk to strangers, and under no circumstances to answer any questions whatsoever. My so called uncle also told me that I must always be known as Carlos DeFoe, the name under which he entered me in the St. Louis school. He assured me that I could not go back home for several years; that in case I should be taken back I would be killed or thrown into a dark prison, and that my only safety was to follow his advice and wait until "the storm blew past." Childlike, I believed him, although I could not understand why I should be so persecuted.

At Fort Leavenworth we joined a company of traders bound for Santa Fe with a large wagon train loaded with merchandise. The journey was long and we were on the road several months. We remained about two weeks in Santa Fe. Lateone evening my "uncle" came to our camp accompanied by a fine looking officer whom he introduced as Captain Ortiz. This officer showed me many little attentions and when he went away my "uncle" told me that I was to accompany this Senor Ortiz to his home, which was at a great distance, as he lived at Hermosillo, Mexico. He assured me that Senor Ortiz was a wealthy Mexican, and would be kind and good to me so long as I was civil and obedient. He ordered me to retire early, as Senor Ortiz expected to start very early the next morning. This man, and the woman who he claimed as his wife, had been kind to me, and I had learned to love them, and I was greatly pained when they told me I would have to leave them. They seemed to be the only links connecting me with home and I cried and begged them not to cast me out. The lady interceded for me but my so called uncle was obdurate. I discovered that they were partially intoxicated, and the smell of brandy on their breath caused a shudder, as it recalled the causes which had wrecked our home, filled untimely graves, and sent me an outcast in a strange country.

Early the next morning Captain Ortiz called for me, and with many tears I bade my kind "uncle" and "aunt" goodbye. They promised to come on to Hermosillo in a short time and locate permanently, but I never saw them again. Senor Ortiz was accompanied by his wife, two small children, and several servants. He travelled in a large ambulance ordiligencia, and the journey to Hermosillo, although long and weary, was not without its pleasures. Senor Ortiz and his amiable senora were kind and affectionate toward me, and I soon learned to love them as a father and mother. From the morning we left Santa Fe, they began teaching me Spanish, and as neither of them spoke English, at first the task seemed laborious, but in a few weeks I began to acquire quite a store of Spanish words and from that time on I learned rapidly. Captain Ortiz became a father to me and no one was ever blessed with a more tender mother than Senora Guadalupe Ortiz proved to be. As a son, I spent eight bright years in their luxuriant home, years filled with gaiety and pleasure. The Senor had a son of my age, and we twain were placed in the best school in the city and grew up together as brothers.

Captain Ortiz had served many years in the army, and was away much of his time in the service of his country, under General Ortega. At the battle of Calpulalpam, December 22, 1859, in which the forces under Miramon, Marquez and Mejia were utterly routed and the army of the Reforma (Liberal) gained a decisive victory, Captain Ortiz was borne from the field desperately wounded and was never again able to do military service. Two days after the battle General Ortega Zaragonza, and Benito Quintana visited Captain Ortiz. It was believed the Captain's wound would prove fatal and General Ortega expressed his regret over the loss of such a valiant soldier. "No loss," said my foster father, "I have yet two sons to give to my country's service." He referred to his own son, Juan, and myself.

In December, 1861, rumors of a great war against Mexico reached Hermosillo. The following January a call to arms was issued. England, France and Spain had formed an alliance and their combined fleets, with a large army was approaching Vera Cruz. Although an American by birth, I was a Mexican in language, custom and education, and had imbibed my foster father's spirit of patriotism. I had become estranged from the home of my childhood and the memory of my countrymen. I had mastered the Spanish language and had formed the strongest attachments for the Mexicans and the customs — in truth I was a Mexican in every respect, save birth.

My foster brother, Juan Pablo Ortiz, a cousin to Juan, and myself enlisted in Captain Antonio Villegas' company and hastened to the City of Mexico, where we remained on duty until the reorganization of the Liberal army in November, 1861. Eleven thousand men responded to their country's call, and were impatient to meet the invaders. The following month the allied forces occupied Vera Cruz. A little later the English and Spanish governments cancelled the alliance and withdrew their troops, leaving the French emperor, Napoleon III, aided by Mexican traitors, to prosecute the war against the independence of Mexico. We were assigned to the Eastern Division, under command of General Ortega.

Puebla was the first point of attack by the French. The place was being strongly fortified, and within its walls was gathered the flower of the Mexican army, 22,000 strong. The French general, Forey, with 33000 veteran soldiers of the French army, aided by 3,000 traitorous Mexicans under Marquez, sat down before the city. The siege lasted sixty-two days, during which time firing never ceased day or night. The regiment to which I belonged was placed in the division commanded by General Berriozabal, who was assigned to the defense of Fort San Xavier. In this division there was a regiment commanded by an American, Colonel Barnardo Smith. This officer approached me one evening and asked if I were not an American. I told him "yes, by birth.", "I have learned something of your antecedents from your captain, " said he, "you are from Middle Tennessee, and Defoe is not your name. Your people have hunted over the world for you. Report to me after this siege is terminated." I felt some alarm over this revelation and decided to comply with the Colonel's request, but a few days later General Ortega surrendered and when I last saw Colonel Smith he, with another American, Colonel Foster, with all the officers of Ortega's army, were prisoners of war and were being marched out of the city on their way to Vera Cruz.

Immediately after the surrender at Puebla, the French general offered full pardon and release of all prisoners of war who would subscribe to an oath binding themselves to take no further part in the war against the French, and to this many subscribed and were released. I am proud to say that not one of my company yielded to the tempter, and as a consequence we, with others, were started under a strong guard for Orizaba. The second day out from Puebla we, that is, I and Juan Ortiz, decided to escape if possible. Pablo had been left at Puebla on account of wounds. That night we made the attempt. Juan was retaken, but I succeeded in getting away with two other comrades who were in the plot. This escape was made near a little village known as Santa Rita, and although footsore and weary from the long day's march on foot, we traveled several miles before dawn the next morning. At a little rancho we found food and shelter and were told that while the French occupied all the principal towns and commanded all the public highways, they seldom penetrated the remote districts. We also learned that there were no Mexican troops nearer than the City of Mexico, other than small bands of guerrilleros who infested the mountain districts and kept up a predatory warfare against the French invaders.

Finding it almost impossible to reach the army at the capitol, we decided to join the guerrilleros. We were told of a Captain Pechucca, whose name had become a terror to the French around Vera Cruz and Jalapa and who, with a mere handful of brave, fearless riders had destroyed several commissary trains and had otherwise inflicted great damage to the enemy. We finally made our way to the lair of this daring patriot, who, when he heard our story, kindly received us, armed and mounted us, and we participated afterwards in all his raids and a number of desperate engagements.

General Forey found that the French forces were powerless to check the incursions and forays of the guerrilleros, who seldom fought in the open, but attacked where least expected, destroyed wagon trains, and, laden with booty, fled to the mountain fastnesses. The Mexican population was friendly to the guerrilleros and gave them information as to the designs and movements of the invaders. In order to suppress these raids and to finally exterminate these guerrilleros, General Forey began the organization of a class of troops known as "Contraguerrilleros." Some 900 or 1,000 men of all nationalities were enlisted in this band of cutthroat thieves. Keratry, a French officer and a chronicler of the times, says of these men: "There was the sailor, weary of seafaring life; the negro driver from Habana, ruined by the destruction of his sugar crop; the mine convict, but recently escaped from Honduras; the planter from Louisiana, ruined by the Yankees; negroes, filibusters, refugees from all lands, but the greater number were Mexicans, traitors to their own country and enemies to God. "These miserable wretches were placed under the command of General Dupin, an inhuman monster, whose atrocities committed in Mexico won for him the appellation of "El Tigrede los Tropicos" — the Tiger of the Tropics — and of whom the Mexican historian, Don Juan de Dios Pezos, has said: "To count the sands of the beach would be easier than to count the number of Dupin's victims—poor humble Mexicans, who with arms in their hands, wandering through deserts, mountains and forests, garrisoned in hamlets, villages and ranches, always fighting for the integrity and liberty of their country."

Dupin was a soldier of fortune. He had served in China, Algiers, and other countries, and when placed in command of the contraguerrilleros, his first move was the publication of a manifesto announcing that all men of whatsoever nationality who should be taken with arms in their hands should be shot. The Rojos, orguerrilleros, accepted the challenge, and from that date until the United States forced Napoleon II to withdraw his troops from Mexico, there was no quarter shown on either side. With torch and dagger, Dupin and his legion of adventurers carried death and desolation through the richest portion of Southern Mexico. On one occasion they attacked the town of Thaliscoya, and defeated the Juaristas (liberals), who fell back to the mountains. Dupin established himself in the house of Don Jose Villegas, wealthy patriot, who was ordered to furnish at once provisions for 400 men and forage for 200 horses. The order was coupled with the information that Senor Villegas would be shot if he failed to honor the requisition. The Senor summoned the leading men of the village about him, explained the situation, and in a very short time the requirements of the inhuman Dupin were met. Senor Villegas had his servants to prepare a sumptuous feast for Dupin and his officers, and when the meal had been finished, pointing to a large tree that stood in the yard, Dupin, smiling as if in jest, said: "I want to thank you, Senor, for your fine wine and cigars, and in token of my gratitude I shall hang you to that tree." Senor Villegas pleaded for his life; his wife and children prostrated themselves before the monster, and with tears and lamentations begged for the life of the husband and father, but in vain. In their presence he was haltered and swung up to a limb, and they were compelled to witness his death struggle as he slowly suffocated. The home was then set on fire, besides forty other homes in the village. The only crime alleged against these people was that they had harbored guerrilleros.

I and my comrades remained with Captain Pechucco, and many were the skirmishes, victories and repulses that fell to our lot. One circumstance I will relate: Near Costastia lived a Senor Molino, a small merchant, and a devoted patriot. We had been scouting in that vicinity and being very hungry, twelve of us went to Senor Molino's, secured our horses in the corral, and went into the store. We called for cheese and bread, and while eating, the men on watch gave the alarm. Dupin's contraguerrilleros were upon us. We made a run for our horses and escaped to the mountainside. Dupin, with more than 100 men, surrounded the premises and on searching the house found letters which he construed as being significant of Molino's connection with the Liberals, and ordered the Senor taken out and shot. The wife of the doomed patriot implored mercy, but her tears and prayers were unavailing, and a few moments later her husband was a corpse and her home was in flames.

A few days after this occurrence we were joined by Captain Avalos, one of the most famous guerrilleros in Northern Mexico. He had some thirty or forty followers, equally as brave and daring as himself and he had orders to take the two companies in the direction of Tampico, in the state of Tamaulipas. In Avalo's company were two Americans, a young man by the name of Jasper, and a man who was called "Guero" by his comrades.

Near the little town of Casas we went into camp in the mountains, and knowing that the contraguerrilleros were in the country, we sent out scouts in different directions. Near Casas lived Avalo's sweetheart. Captain Avalos visited her, going alone at night. She told him of the movements of the enemy, and warned him to be on his guard, and a greed to go into the village the next day and obtain all information possible with regard to the enemy, and that on the following night she would meet him at a designated place and report her observations. This was on the night of December 23, 1864. Of course, at the time, few of us knew anything about the visit of Avalos to his sweetheart, or any of his plans, but of this and more I learned later.

The 24th was delightfully warm and pleasant and the day was spent after the fashion of veteran cavalrymen after hard marching and desperate fighting. Our camp was near a small river, and sheltered on one side by a low range of small mountains. Grass was green and abundant, and we had orders that night to allow our horses to graze until 11 o'clock, after which they were to be brought in and secured. A few days previous, I had received a flesh wound in the thigh while in a charge made upon a squad of contraguerrilleros. From hard riding, this wound had become inflamed, and during the day we were in camp it gave me considerable pain, and I was quite feverish and restless that night until about 11o'clock, when I fell into a sound slumber, to be awakened a moment later by the crack of guns, loud yells, the wild stampede of horses, and the loud commands of officers. We were betrayed.

*******

In compliance with her agreement Pepita went to the village of Casas on the day appointed and lingered thereabouts, seeking information to carry to her lover, until late in the evening, and when she reached home she found herself a prisoner in the hands of Dupin and a company of his legion. The inhuman brute told her that he knew that Avalos was in the country; that he, Avalos was her lover; and that she knew of his hiding place — all of which she stoutly denied. Coolly and deliberately taking his watch from his pocket, opening it and placing it before her on the table, he said: "You have five minutes in which to tell me where Avalos is encamped. If you refuse, at the end of that time you shall be disrobed and hanged nude in the presence of your family and my men." One of the ruffians advanced when Dupin was speaking, and placed a noose about the neck of the trembling girl, who, unmoved, watched the hand of the timepiece, and when the five minutes had expired and ruffian hands seized her and began to tear off her clothing, and the merciless cord began to tighten about that tender neck, she yielded and confessed. She told the tyrant where Avalos was encamped and of his visit and of her plan to meet him that night.

It was the weakness, not the perfidy, of the girl that led to our disaster. By thus giving the information demanded by Dupin, she saved her life, but lost her home. The day following the surprise, as we marched by that once pretty home, only the smoking ruins remained to attest to its former existence.

It is not my purpose to go into detail in describing the desperate hand to hand struggle that ensued when we found the minions of Dupin upon us that fatal night of December 24, 1864. At the first onset I sprang from my pallet with pistol in hand. The enemy were in our midst, and while Pechucca and Avalos did everything that brave men could do to rally our men, their efforts proved futile. I and Jasper, with "Guero" and a few others, had reached the side of Avalos. Having fired the last shot from my revolver, I stooped to pick up a carbine which I saw lying at the side of one of our fallen comrades. In the act, a ball struck me and I knew nothing more until after sunrise that morning. When I regained consciousness, which came by degrees, I was lying on the ground surrounded by a strong guard. Not until I saw the French uniforms those guards wore, did I realize I was a prisoner. I was consumed with thirst, and called for water. A Mexican traitor, wearing a cap of a Zouave, gave me a cup of water and spoke kindly to me. A short while later he brought me a cup of chocolate and informed me that besides myself, there were eight prisoners, and as soon as they finished burying those killed by our men we would be taken away. He also washed and dressed my wound, which was only a scalp wound, and its worst effects were from concussion, from which I soon recovered.

When I had regained strength sufficiently to set upright, I could then realize the force of the conflict. Many of my comrades lay cold in death where they had fallen, while others, desperately wounded, filled the morning air with their moanings. Avalos and Pechucca had escaped. "El Guera," the American, lay dead not twenty paces from where I had fallen. Jasper, with a broken arm, shattered by a pistol ball, was a prisoner.

The wounded of Dupin's force were taken away in carts, where, I know not. Those of our comrades who were desperate wounded, were shot, and their corpses left, with those who had fallen during the night attack, unburied.

It was about 9 a.m. when we were forced to take up the line of march to, we knew not whither. I had seen Dupin on two former occasions, and was able to recognize him on sight, but failing to see him with the party that morning, I bided my opportunity to make inquiry. On the march our guards displayed the utmost brutality, and those that lagged were urged forward with kicks, blows and saber strokes. When we reached the smoking ruins of Pepita's home, we were halted and allowed to rest a half hour, and while so doing, the Mexican who had shown kindness by bathing and bandaging my head, approached and I asked him about Dupin. He said that early that morning Gen. Dupin and most of his men had hastened back to Casas to be present at the fiesta being held there that day, and that he had given orders for burial of his dead and removal of his wounded. He also told me we were to be taken to Casas. When I asked him if we were to be shot, he answered with a dubious "Quien Sabe," but not on that day, since, said he, "We never execute prisoners or anyone on Christmas day."

We reached Casas about the noon hour and were thrust into a large room in the center of the church. This room was dark, dankish, and without any furniture whatever. It was built of stone and two small grated windows gave insufficient light and ventilation. When the heavy door closed upon us with a clang we were in utter darkness, but gradually our vision became such that we could distinguish objects near us and soon learned that some fifteen or twenty other unfortunates were to share the same fate that awaited us. They were merely suspected of being friendly to the cause for which their countrymen were battling, and were being held for further proof. I threw myself on the bare floor near one of the grated windows, and while pondering over my utterly helpless and hopeless condition, I heard the guard on the outside challenge, and a moment later a young priest was admitted. He was quickly surrounded by the suspect prisoners, most of whom were of his own parish, but he motioned them away and asked to see the prisoners just brought in. We gathered round him only to learn that he had come to confess us and to administer the last rites of the church for the dying! But I said: "Padre, I am an American. General Dupin will not have me shot." To this he made no answer, but taking from his robe a paper and handing it to me, asked me to read it. Taking the document I went near one of the little grated windows where I could obtain sufficient light, and read:

"Todo indiciduo del astado Tamaulipas que, caulquiera que sea elpretexto, toma los armas sin authorizacion previa del general en jefeo del gobernador estado sera considerado como bandido y fusilado." Translated: "Every individual in the state of Tamaulipas who, under whatsoever pretext, takes up arms without authority from the governor of the state or the general in chief, shall be considered as a bandit and if taken shall be shot. Dupin."

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Returning the paper to the padre, I said: "Well, padre, this looks bad. Is there no hope for me and my comrades?"

"Your hopes must rest only in that salvation which Christ has provided for those who obey Him," was his reply. "General Dupin spares none. He will execute no one today," continued the priest, "because it is the natal day of our Lord, but hasta manana."

"But, padre, surely there is a way of escape. Two of us are Americans. Are there not men in this place to intercede for us? Have the Americans no friends in Casas?"

"Yes, the Alcalde is a friend to the Americans, but what can he do? Should he dare to intercede in your behalf he would probably be arrested and shot for his temerity. There is no hope."

"Will you carry a message to the Alcalde?" I urged. "I will make a direct appeal to him."

The padre agreed to carry a note as requested, and tearing a leaf from a little book he carried, he handed it to me with a short pencil, and I wrote:

"Senor Alcalde, somos Americanos y prisoners sentenciados a muerte. Ayudanos. Carlos DeFoe, Elbert Jasper. "

Translated "Senor Alcalde: We are Americans and prisoners under sentence of death. Help us."

The priest took the note and departed. After dark that evening he returned and said the alcalde had received the note but could render no assistance whatever. He also informed me that by order of Dupin the people of the town had provided a great Christmas feast. for the general and his men, and that with feasting and drinking mescal, men and officers were holding high revelry, and the people were in a state of intense alarm lest the town be burned and the citizens murdered before morning.

When he had finished his holy ministrations, the priest went away. I again threw myself upon the coarse floor and gave way to a train of reflections, the nature of which could not be other than sad. It was Christmas day and my mind wandered back across the vista of years to bright scenes of my childhood and for the first time I bewailed the cruel hand of fate, that without fault of mine, had torn me from those I loved, and had led me into a strange land, a wanderer upon the earth, and while scarcely upon the threshold of a vigorous manhood I must die as a felon. I prayed as one on the brink of eternity, and a great peace, a calm resignation, unspeakable, undefinable, came into my soul and I slept.

I suppose I had been asleep only a few minutes when I was awakened by the call of the hour by the guard on the outside. The room was still and quiet with the exception of the whispered prayers to the Virgin, offered by my unfortunate comrades. While trying to compose myself to sleep again, I heard a low sweet voice singing. It was evidently a female voice and the words were indistinguishable. As I listened the voice hushed only to take up the song in a low but clearer strain, and the words and melody were wafted to our ears with sad but magic effect. It could be no other than that of the voice of a young girl, and why the guards allowed her to approach so near that cartel and engage in singing snatches from the hymno nacional was more than we dared conjecture, unless the sentries were charmed by the peculiar melody of her voice. The prayers of our comrades ceased and not a sound broke the stillness within while the singer outside chanted:

"Antes, Patria! que inermes tushijos

Baje el zugo su cuello dobleguen

Tus campinas con sangre rieguen

Sombre sangre se estampa su pie

Y sus templos, palacios y torres,

Se derumben con horrido estruendo,

Y sus ruinas existan diciendo„

De mil heroes la Patria aqui fue."

The song hushed as if the singer would expect applause or some token of response, and then clearer and louder came the stanza: "Tornance sus lauras sangrientos, En guirnaldas de mirtos y rosas, Que el amor de las hijas y esposas, Tambien sabe a los bravos primiar."

Then there came a sharp command, supposedly from the officer of the guard, and the singer for a moment stopped her song and seemed to retire, but shortly resumed her melody and the note grew fainter as she sang:

"Un recuerdo para ellos de gloria! Un laurel para ti de victoria! Unsepulcro para ellos de honor."

My wounds were painful, my thigh was greatly swollen and I was in a high fever, but fell again into a sleep, a slumber that was really not a sleep but a state of semi-consciousness. It was not the quality of sleep that restores exhausted vitality, and brings rest to the senses. The mind was still active under the awful tension and in my feverish dreams I was a boy again and once more in the old Tennessee home and it was the glad Christmas time. I heard again my father's voice and my mother's low sweet song as she sang to us so long ago. The merry shout, the lilting song, the rude jest, and the loud laughter of the happy slaves as they gathered at the "bighouse" to receive those tokens of kindly forethought from the hands of "Marstah and Missus" the candles burned bright in the dear old home and I heard the glad peal of the Christmas bells from the village churc htower nearby.

From this feverish dream I was awakened by Jasper, who lay near me. He laid his hand on my arm and asked me to listen; that he had heard the firing of guns. I sat up and listened and in a few seconds there was an uproar as if pandemonium had broken loose in town. Continued volleys of musketry, accompanied by loud yells and screams, broke forth on the air. (I afterward learned that the attack was made at 4a.m.) A huge bugle call was sounded near our place of imprisonment, and we believed that the fears of the people as related to us by the priest were being realized and the citizens were being murdered by Dupin's drunken soldiery, and that the town would soon be in flames. Our fellow prisoners fell down upon their knees and devoutly commended themselves to the Virgin, and we all expected each moment to be our last. From the little grated window I discovered that while the sounds were growing wilder, they were approaching nearer. The guards on the outside of our prison fired their pieces, after which I could hear no more from them. They had departed.

A cavalcade dashed by our prison at breakneck speed and above the din of battle I heard the familiar cry: "muete a las Frances!" (death to the French!) the sweetest music, the gladdest Christmas tidings I ever heard. The din of battle died away and for one long half hour we waited in deepest suspense, when heavy blows outside felled the doors and the old Alcalde, followed by a troop of soldiers rushed in and told us that we were rescued and saved!

*********

General Mendez, the Bedford Forest of Mexico, was not far distant the night previous, when Dupin attacked and routed Avalos. He was joined by those of my comrades who escaped and was approaching through the Liebre pass to make a night attack on Dupin, when he was met by the Alacalde and informed that nine of his men were prisoners and would be shot the following morning, and that Dupin and his men were engaged in a drunken carousal in Casas.

On receiving the intelligence, Mendez called a halt and explained to his men the situation, and urged every man to strike to avenge the wrongs of comrades and countrymen. The result was a night attack, the defeat of Dupin, the saving of the town from the torch, and the saving of nine men myself among the members from an ignominious death.

Dupin and a goodly number of his contraguerrilleros escaped, leaving twenty-three of their comrades dead and six prisoners. These six were shot at sunrise the next morning.

I remained under the banner of Juarez until after the execution of Maximilian and his two Mexican Generals, Miramon and Mejia, at Querretaro, June 19, 1867. Forty-six years with their joys and sorrows, their lights and deep shadows, have come and gone since that terrible night at Casas, and during these years I have not been a stranger to sorrow, and although a grateful country has in a measure rewarded me for humble services rendered in her life of peril and need, yet there have been many dark days to sadden my life, but barring the tragedy that sent me as a child waif, an outcast in a foreign land, the saddest I ever knew was the Christmas day 1864, when I passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Tacuba, Mexico D.F., Nov. 1, 1910

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