A campaign in MexicoScribner, B. F. (Benjamin Franklin)
History
A campaign in Mexico
Scribner, B. F. (Benjamin Franklin)
Mexican War, 1846-1848 -- Personal narratives
furnished me with a cushion to sit upon, covered with cloth of their
own weaving, which was fringed and ornamented with the brightest and
most showy of colors. We could understand each other very well upon
some subjects, such as the various articles of clothing, and the
prices of the different materials. Everything in the room was of the
roughest construction. The fire was placed at one end of the room upon
a floor, which was of the most primitive order. An aperture in the
roof served for a chimney, which but partially performed the agency.
They were destitute of chairs and bedsteads. Hides spread upon the
ground constituted their beds, an arrangement admirably adapted to
prevent injury upon the heads of children, caused by falling during
the dreamy hours of sleep. I was greatly pleased with the two women,
and with one especially. She appeared to belong to a higher station.
She was apparently about twenty-one, and looked very differently from
any of the sex I had yet seen in that region. Her forehead was high
and intellectual, her countenance was animated and intelligent. In
her ears were large golden pendants, which contrasted strangely with
the rude furniture around. Her beautifully delicate hand did honor
to the glittering jewels encircling her tapering fingers, which were
gracefully entwining the hair of her companion seated by her side.
Perhaps my preference for one was induced by the approving glances from
her “large, dark, eloquent eyes.” She had smoothed for me the cushion,
and flattered me with her looks, and I being in a frame of mind
rather susceptible to kind attentions, my vanity was very naturally
somewhat excited. They were both attired in the simplest manner. A
white chemise, and skirt girded around the waist with a yellow silk
sash comprised the whole arrangement. Their small beautiful feet were
not cramped in stockings or shoes, or their ankles hid with a skirt
too long. Their bosoms were not compressed in stays, or mantled in
cashmeres, but heaved freely under the healthful influences of the
genial sun and balmy air of the sunny south. I approached the mat where
they were sitting, and took the hand of a little girl, and touching
the shoulders of my favorite, I pointed to the child and asked if it
was hers. She shook her head, and looked intelligibly towards her
companion. I then took up the child in my arms and pointed to the
“States,” as if I would take it home with me. They both snatched the
child with great fondness, exclaiming “no, no, no,” to the infinite
amusement of the men who came around me, making every demonstration of
gratification and good will. At this interesting crisis the steamboat
bell summoned me, and by running at full speed I arrived just in time,
while one of the party less fortunate was left behind. He was greatly
frightened, and plead earnestly, but his supplications were in vain.
The captain said he could walk across the country, and get to Matamoros
before we would.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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