Читать книгу At the Point of the Sword - Herbert Hayens - Страница 16

Table of Contents

Perhaps my Indian host overstated the case, but he could not have been far wrong in saying that no stranger had ever succeeded in finding the Hidden Valley.

Let me describe the coast of Peru, and then you may be able to form some idea of the district between the Spanish fortress and my new home. The coast is a sandy desert studded with hills, and having in the background stupendous ranges of towering mountains. From north to south the desert is cut at intervals by streams, which in the rainy season are converted into roaring rivers. Little villages dot the banks of these streams, and here and there are patches of cultivated land.

From one river to another the country is for the most part a dreary desert of sand, where rain never falls nor vegetation grows—a dead land, where the song of a bird is a thing unknown. Sometimes after a sandstorm a cluster of dry bones may be seen—the sole remains of lost travellers and their animals. At times even the most experienced guides lose the track, and then they are seen no more. Over such a desert I had ridden from the fort, and the Indians assured me that, even in broad daylight, I could not go back safely without a guide.

As for the valley itself, it was comparatively nothing but a slit in the mass of mountains. A river ran through it, and the water was used by the Indians to irrigate the surrounding land. Their live stock consisted chiefly of oxen and horses, and the principal vegetables cultivated were maize and coca. You may not know that this coca is a plant something like the vine, and it grows to a height of six or eight feet. The leaves are very carefully gathered one by one. They are bitter to the taste, however, and as a rule strangers do not take kindly to coca. The Indian is never without it. It is the first thing he puts into his mouth in the morning, and the last thing that he takes out at night. He carries a supply in a leathern pouch hung round his neck, and with this and a handful of roasted maize he will go a long day's journey. I had never chewed coca before, but soon got into the habit of doing so, much to the delight of my new friends.

My stay in the Hidden Valley, although lasting nearly two years, had little of interest in it. The Indians treated me with every respect. I was lodged in the best house, and was given the best fare the valley produced. Within the valley I was master, but I was not allowed to join any of their expeditions, and without their help it was impossible, as I have explained, to get away.

Their advice to stay quietly in my hiding-place was indeed the best they could give. I was quite safe, the Spanish soldiers in the fort being unable to follow me, and indeed, as we gathered from the spy, quite at a loss to account for my escape. Away from the valley, too, I should be utterly helpless. I could not return to Lima, and without money there was little chance of making my way into Chili.

The two things that troubled me most were José's fate and my mother's unhappiness. At first I had ventured to hope that my friend still lived; but as the weeks and months passed without any tidings, I began to look upon him as dead. The Indians thought it certain I should never see him again.

As to my mother, she would be in no particular uneasiness until the time came for the return of the Aguila; but I dreaded what would happen when Mr. Maxwell had to confess the schooner was overdue, and that nothing had been heard of her. Many miserable hours I spent wandering about the valley, and thinking how my mother would watch and wait, hoping against hope for some tidings of the missing ship.

One night—it was in the December of 1819—I had gone to bed early, when an unusual commotion in the valley caused me to get up. My Indian host had already gone out, so, putting on my things, I followed.

Naturally my first thought was of the Spaniards; but the natives, though flocking towards the entrance to the valley, did not appear alarmed. Several of them carried torches, and a strange picture was revealed by the lurid flames.

On the ground lay a horse so weak and exhausted that it could barely struggle for breath. Close by, supported in the arms of two Indians, was the rider, a short, rather stout man of brown complexion. His eyes were glazed as if in death. Blood gushed from his ears and nostrils, his head hung limply down: it was hard to believe that he lived.

The natives gabbled to each other, and I heard the words frequently repeated, "Sorillo's messenger!" Then an old, old woman—the mother of the village—tottered feebly down the path. In one hand she carried a small pitcher, and in the other a funnel, whose slender stem they inserted between the man's teeth. In this way a little liquid was forced into his mouth, and presently his bared breast heaved slightly—so slightly that the motion was almost imperceptible.

However, the old woman appeared satisfied, and at a sign from her the stricken man was carried slowly up the path. One native attended to the horse, and the rest returned to their huts, talking excitedly of what had happened.

"Is that a messenger from Raymon Sorillo, Quilca?" I asked my host.

"Yes," said he, "and he has had a very narrow escape. He has been caught in a sandstorm. Perhaps he lost the track. Perhaps the soldiers gave chase, and he went further round to baffle them. Who knows? But we shall hear to-morrow."

"Then he is likely to recover?"

"Yes; the medicine saved him. Didn't you see his chest move?"

"Yes," I replied, thinking that but a small thing to go on.

"That showed the medicine was in time," returned Quilca. "It has begun its work, and all will be well."

Quilca spoke so confidently that, had I been the patient, I should have started on the road to recovery at once.

"Will he stay here long?" I asked.

"Who knows?" replied Quilca. "The chief gives orders; the servants obey."

"But he will return at some time?"

"It is likely."

"And will he take a message to my mother, do you think?"

"Oh yes," said the Indian; "I had forgotten. Besides"—and he touched the cord supporting the silver key—"he is your servant, as I am."

For three days the messenger was too weak to explain his errand; but the medicine worked wonders, and at the end of a week he sent for Quilca and the other leading men of the tribe.

What orders he brought I did not learn; only my host told me that the rising to which they looked forward had been put off. The Chilians were not ready, and could not be in Peru for at least another six months.

Quilca was dreadfully disappointed; but the chief had spoken, and his word was law. Indeed, it was most extraordinary to see with what reverence his commands were treated. Had it been his pleasure, I am sure his followers would have willingly gone to certain death.

On the day following this I visited the messenger, who, on seeing the silver key, bowed low before me.

"What are my lord's commands?" asked he humbly.

"They are very simple," I replied. "In a short time you are returning to your chief. Say to him that Juan Crawford is safe in the Hidden Valley, and ask him to tell Señora Maria Dolores Crawford at Lima so. Can you remember that?"

The blood mounted into the man's face as he said, "I will remember." Then he added in quick, eager tones, "Are you the son of Don Eduardo?"

"He was my father."

At that the man bent again and kissed my hand, saying—

"Señor, he was our best friend. He loved our people, and when he was killed there was much weeping in the villages of the Indians."

"He gave his life for you," said I slowly.

"As we will give ours for his son," answered the man; and no one hearing him could have doubted the sincerity of his words.

At the end of a fortnight he was strong enough to travel, and his last words as he struck into the narrow pass were, "I shall not forget, señor."

After his departure I felt much easier. True, there was a terrible journey before him, which hardly one man in a thousand could hope to accomplish successfully; but he was a daring and plucky rider, used alike to desert and mountain. Then, too, any Indian on the route would give him food and shelter, and warn him of any lurking soldiers.

He would relate my story to Raymon Sorillo, and I knew that the gigantic chief would carry the news to my mother. I no longer fretted at being shut up in the valley, but passed my time merrily with the boys and younger men of the tribe, learning their patois, riding, and practising shooting with the musket, and with bow and arrow.

On my fifteenth birthday Quilca organized some sports, and though not gaining a first prize in any event, I performed so creditably that the Indians were delighted with my prowess.

"The young chief will make a warrior," said they, and I felt proud of their praise.

Let me try to give you a picture of myself at that time. I was tall for my age, standing five feet five inches in height. I had curly dark hair, cut rather short, and brown eyes. My face was tanned through exposure to the weather and regular exercise had made my muscles hard as iron. Like my companions, I wore a short woollen jacket, dark in colour, and breeches open at the knees, and caught up with strips of coloured cotton. My cap was of wool gorgeously embroidered; dark woollen stockings without feet covered my legs, and in place of boots I had a pair of goatskin sandals. Thrown over my left shoulder was a small poncho, which dangled like the cloak worn by some of our cavalry soldiers.

Some time during the month of April Sorillo's messenger returned, bringing me two letters—one from my mother, the other from the chief.

I need not say how eagerly I opened the first. It was very long, consisting of several closely-written pages, but it did not contain a word too much. I read it over and over again, until I could almost say it by heart. No word had reached Lima of the wreck of the Aguila; but the British merchants, though bidding my mother be of good cheer, had put the schooner down for lost. My message had shown their fears to be well grounded, but at the same time it had carried joy and thankfulness to my mother's breast.

"I grieve for poor José," she wrote, "but I thank God every hour for your safety."

The letter from Sorillo was brief. After saying how glad he was to get my message, he went on—

"For the present, stay in the Hidden Valley; there is no safer place in Peru. The fruit ripens slowly, and even yet is not ready for plucking. San Martin has not left Valparaiso, and little beyond skirmishing will be done this year."

Apparently, however, he had sent definite orders to the tribe, as from this date I noticed a great difference in our hitherto peaceful abode. Every man went armed day and night, scouts were posted on the mountains, and swift riders scoured the desert for miles.

Once, too, a band of horsemen, twenty strong, led by Quilca, left the valley at night. I could not learn their business, because Quilca said they were acting under the secret orders of the great chief. They were absent three days, and when, in the gray dawn of the fourth morning, they rode back up the valley, three were missing. The leader had a bloodstained bandage round his head, and several men bore signs of a fierce conflict.

"You are hurt?" said I, as Quilca dismounted.

"It is nothing," replied he carelessly.

"And three of your followers have not returned!"

"It cost six lives to kill them," he answered, with fierce satisfaction, passing into the hut.

This expedition was followed by others, and from the talk in the valley I gathered that Sorillo had started the Indians on the war-trail. Already the Spaniards were safe only in large numbers, for on every weak and isolated detachment the fierce mountaineers swept down like hawks on their prey.

Now and again they were beaten off; but this did not happen often, because they knew the number of their enemy almost to a man, and had learned the most effective method of attack. Generally speaking, the little body of Spanish soldiers had no chance whatever, either of flight or of victory.

From time to time strange and startling rumours reached us. In September we heard that the Chilian army had landed on the coast, and soon afterwards that the Englishman Cochrane had swept the Spanish fleet from the seas. José had often spoken of this daring sailor, who, after performing many glorious deeds in the British navy, had taken command of the Chilian fleet, and had done much to make Chili independent of Spain. Now, with his ships and sailors, he was helping to do the same for Peru.

On hearing these things I became impatient, not wishing to remain cooped up in the valley while the Liberating Army was marching on Lima.

However, my deliverance, though slow in coming, came at length, but before that time I had a most startling surprise. One morning, in the last week of January 1821, I had gone out very early, half expecting to see Quilca returning from one of his excursions. Most of the Indians were astir, when suddenly a man came running from the mouth of the pass.

"Here they are!" he cried; "here they are!"

We pushed down quickly to meet them, I in the very front. Quilca appeared first, riding slowly, as if his horse were tired out. His men, lolling on their animals, followed, some of them with closed eyes and half asleep.

Presently I caught sight of Sorillo's messenger, nearly at the end of the line; and then I opened my eyes wide, thinking they had played me false. Was I awake, or was I dreaming? Was I—

"Jack!"

That settled it! The Indians stared in astonishment, as with a startled cry I ran past them to where in the rear a man had jumped from his horse to the ground.

"José!" I cried, "José!" and for the life of me could say no more, but stood staring at him as if he had been some strange, unnatural animal.

Had I the skill of an artist, I should love to draw his face as he looked into mine. It was strong and firm and purposeful, but the gray eyes softened into almost womanly tenderness.

"Why, Jack," said he, shifting the reins and laying a hand on my shoulder, "you're quite a man! Your mother would be proud of you!"

"Have you seen her?" I asked.

"Yes; all's well at home. But we'll talk of that later on. So you've turned Indian, eh?"

"It's better than living in a cell!"

"So it is; and you didn't go down in the ship, after all?"

"No; but I must tell you the story when you've had something to eat. Give your horse to this youngster, and now come on to Quilca's hut; you must be tired."

"I was," replied he, "but the sight of you woke me up. I wondered if you'd be waiting to see the braves come home. That Quilca of yours is a born soldier. He'd make a good general if they didn't train him!"

He rattled on, and I listened, glad just to hear the sound of his voice, without reference to what he said.

Quilca bade us welcome to the hut, and his womenfolk brought in the food and drink they had prepared.

José, as I have said, knew the Indian patois, which during the meal, he used for the benefit of our host, whose Spanish was rather halting. He talked of the war, and told how the Chilians had landed, and how the Royalists were broken up and in full retreat. The campaign, he said, was as good as over, and San Martin could be President of Peru any day he chose.

At that I was much astonished, for knowing the Spanish leaders, I had expected them to fight to the death; but it was pleasing news, all the same, and I began to speculate on how soon we should be in Lima.

After breakfast José had a long nap, and then I took him for a stroll in the valley, where we could talk without interruption.

I was anxious to hear about my mother, but first I told my own story—the rescue by the Spanish soldiers, the coming of General Barejo, and the power of the silver key, as also the escape by the underground passage, just as I have related it here.

"Barejo's a dangerous man," remarked José thoughtfully. "He'll spend the last drop of blood in his body to keep this country for Spain. He's Loyalist and Royalist to the core. It's a pity, too, because he is fighting for a lost cause."

"The more honour to him!" I answered warmly.

"Just so," exclaimed José, with a queer smile; "but, all the same, he makes things more difficult for us."

"Well, put him on one side now. Tell me your own adventures, and where you were when my message reached Lima."

"On the way there. When the schooner foundered, I reckoned it was all over. I went down to a great depth, but, as luck would have it, came up just clear of a broken mast. One of the sailors was holding to it, and I joined him, though without any hope of being saved. You know I'm pretty strong, but I was helpless in that wild sea. The waves just flung me about anyhow. The other chap lasted an hour or two, when down he went with a scream, and I heard no more of him. But I needn't dwell on the horrors of that night; you had a strong taste of them yourself. About daybreak I was flung like a spent ball on to a sandy beach. I had just strength to crawl a few yards further up, and then collapsed. It seems some Indians carried me away, and nursed me back to health, but for weeks I was wild as a loon. They searched the coast, but found nothing, and I concluded you were at the bottom of the sea. Then I got a passage to Pisco in a coasting brig, and from there made my way overland to Callao."

"Where you heard I was alive?"

"Yes; I hardly know whether I stood on my head or my heels when I was told. It was old Mr. Warren who informed me. I went to him because I dared not go to your mother. I was afraid that—"

"All right; I understand."

"So I went to Warren, and he began a long yarn; but as soon as he said you were alive, I was off like a shot to Lima."

Then he talked of my mother, repeating the messages she had given him, and I could have listened for hours. As it was, I plied him with questions, asking this and that—if my pony was well; had he seen Rosa Montilla; was my mother less sad; and a hundred other things, many of them trivial enough, yet full of interest to me.

At the end I asked how he had found his way to the Hidden Valley.

"Oh!" replied he with a jolly laugh, "that was simple. I hunted up your black-browed bandit, who passed me on to one of his band. How he found the way I can't tell you, but he brought me along all right."

"And now what are we going to do?"

"Well, that depends. If the Spaniards give in, we can just go quietly back home."

"And if they don't?"

"Well, in that case—"

"We must join General San Martin!" I exclaimed.

"I suppose so," he said, half reluctantly. "You're only a boy, but there are many youngsters of your age with the army, and you've a big stake in the country. But we can afford to let that matter stand for a day or two longer."