New York Dispatch

The Tiger of the Tropics.
Reminiscence of Shelby's Expedition to Mexico after Lee's Surrender.
(From the Kansas City Times.)

Preceding Shelby's arrival in Monterey, there had come also Colonel Francois Achille Dupin, a Frenchman, who was known as the "Tiger of the Tropics." What he did would fill a volume. Recorded here, no reader would believe it; no Christian would imagine such warfare possible. He was past sixty, tall as Tecumseh, straight as a rapier, with a seat in the saddle like an English guardsman, and a waist like a woman. For deeds of desperate daring he had received more decorations than could be displayed upon the right breast of his uniform.

His hair and beard, snowy white, contrasted strangely with a stern, set face, that had been bronzed by the sun and the winds of fifty campaigns.

In the Chinese expedition, this man had led the assault upon the emperor's palace, wherein no defender escaped the bayonet, and no woman the grasp of the brutal soldiery. Sack and pillage, and murder and crime without name, all were there, and when the fierce carnage was done, Dupin, staggering under the weight of rubies, and pearls, and diamonds, was a disgraced man.

The inexorable laws of a French court-martial closed down upon him, and he was dismissed from service.

Such a man, however, had need of the army, and the army had need of him. The emperor gave him back his rank, his decorations, and gave him as well his exile into Mexico. Maximilian refused him; Bazaine found work for his sword. Dupin was ordered to recruit a regiment of Contre guerillas—that is to say, a regiment of free companions who were to be superbly armed and mounted, and who were to follow the Mexican guerillas through copse and chapparal, sparing no man upon whom hands were laid.

Murder with Dupin was a fine art. Mistress or maid he had none. That cold, brown face, classic a little in its outlines, and retaining a little of its fierce Southern beauty, never grew soft save when the battle was wild and the carnage ghastly and thick. When he laughed or sang his men made the sign of the cross. They knew death was ready at arm's length, and that in an hour he would put his sickle in and reap savagely a fresh harvest of Mexicans. He had a theory, often put into practice, which was diabolical.

"When you kill a Mexican," he would say, "that is the end of him. When you cut off an arm or a leg that throws him upon the charity of his friends, and then two or three must support him. Those who make corn cannot make soldiers. It is economy to amputate."

Hundreds thus passed under the hands of his surgeons. His maimed and mutilated were in every town, from Mier to Monterey. On occasions when the march had been pleasant and the wine generous, he would permit chloroform for the operation; otherwise not. It distressed him for a victim to die beneath the knife.

"You bunglers endanger my theory," he would cry out to his surgeons. "Why can't you cut without killing?"

The "Tiger of the Tropics" also had his playful mood. He would stretch himself in the sun, overpower one with gentleness and attention, say soft things in whispers, quote poetry on occasions, make of himself an elegant host, serve the wine, laugh low and lightsomely, wake up all of a sudden a demon, and—kill.

One instance of this is yet a terrible memory in Monterey.

An extremely wealthy and influential Mexican, Don Vincente Ibarra, was at home upon his hacienda one day about noon as Dupin marched by. Perhaps the man was a Liberal: certainly he sympathized with Juarez, and had done much for the cause in the shape of recruiting and resistance to the predatory bands of Imperialists. As yet, however, he had taken up no arms, and had paid his proportion of the taxes levied upon him.

Dupin was at dinner when his scouts brought Ibarra into camp. In front of the tent was a large tree in full leaf, whose spreading branches made an extensive and most agreeable shade. Under this the Frenchman had a camp-stool placed for the comfort of the Mexican.

"Be seated," he said to him in a voice no harsher than the wind in the leaves overhead. "And, waiter, lay another plate for my friend."

The meal was a delightful one. Dupin talked as a subject who had a prince for his guest, and as a lover who had a woman for a listener. In the intervals of the conversation he served wine. Ibarra was delighted. His suspicious Spanish heart relaxed the tension of its grim defense, and he even stroked the tiger's velvet skin, who closed his sleepy eyes and purred under the caress.

When the wine was at its full, cigars were handed. Behind the white cloud of smoke Dupin's face darkened. Suddenly he spoke to Ibarra, pointing up to the tree:

"What a fine shade it makes, Senor. Do such trees ever bear fruit?"

"Never, colonel. What a question!"

"Never? All things are possible with God—why not with a Frenchman?"

"Because a Frenchman believes so little in God, perhaps."

The face grew darker and darker.

"Are your affairs prosperous, Senor?"

"As much so as these times will permit."

"Very good. You have just five minutes in which to make them better. At the end of that time I will hang you on that tree so sure as you are a Mexican. What, ho! Captain Jacan, turn out the guard!"

Ibarra's deep olive face grew ghastly white, and he fell upon his knees. No prayers, no agonizing entreaty, no despairing supplication wrung from a strong man in his agony, availed him aught. At the appointed time his rigid frame swung between heaven and earth, another victim to the mood of one who never knew an hour of penitence or mercy.

The tree had borne fruit.

And so this manner of man—this white-haired Dupin—decorated, known to two continents as the "Tiger of the Tropics," who kept four picked chasseurs to stand guard over him night and day, this old-young soldier, with a voice like a schoolgirl and a heart like a glacier, came to Monterey and recruited a regiment of Contre Guerillas, a regiment that feared neither God, man, the Mexicans nor the devil.