Close by, an officer lay drunk as a fiddler, another had broken the neck of a champagne bottle, and was trying to swallow the stuff before it bubbled all away. I seized him by the neck, knocked the bottle out of his hand, and shook him.
He turned round, looked at me, and fell on his knees in absolute terror. I jerked him to his feet, singing out, 'San Fernando!' sweeping my arm round the camp, pointing to the guns, and then along the road towards the barricade.
'San Fernando!' I roared. He had a revolver in his belt, I pulled it out--it was unloaded, but that did not matter--and ran up to the wagons, kicking and cuffing the miserable wretches. They shrieked out, '_Don Geraldio!_' and bolted, but two of them.--rather drunk they were--came for me with their _machetes_, and didn't stop when I pointed the revolver at them.
It was a jolly awkward moment, but I gave the first a blow on the point of his jaw, which knocked him flying, and before the second could get at me, there were shouts of '_Yuesencia! Yuesencia!_' and the officer from whom I had taken the champagne bottle cut him down, clean from the top of his skull to his mouth. He did it with a _machete_. More officers--half fuddled--came running up, and whether they thought I was Gerald or not, they were in a hopeless fright, and began to lay about them with the flat of their swords, and soon got their natives into order, although I saw a good many of them stealing away among the trees, laden with spoil.
[Illustration: "I GAVE THE FIRST A BLOW ON THE POINT OF HIS JAW"]
Ugh! the brutes had evidently killed all the wounded. It was a perfectly sickening sight. I was beside myself with rage.
Then just as some mules were being hitched to that first field-gun, I saw a native trying to lead away a big black horse. The poor beast was limping badly every step he took, and the man was beating him cruelly. I rushed across, and the man saw me coming, and ran off. The horse had a very elaborate head-stall and blue saddle-cloth, and I felt certain that I had seen him somewhere before. 'Poor old fellow,' I said, stroking his nose. He was simply sweating with pain, and seemed to know I was a friend. I rubbed my hand down his legs, and looked at his feet, and soon found what the mischief was. One of his rear shoes was half off, and a projecting nail had made a gash in his frog, so no wonder the poor old chap was in such pain.