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CHAPTER II

Sergeant Martial and His Nephew

The departure of this trio of geographers—a trio whose performers rarely played in tune with each other—was set for August 12, in the middle of the rainy season.

The night before, around eight o’clock in the evening, two travelers staying at a hotel in Ciudad Bolívar were chatting in one of their rooms. A light, balmy breeze blew in through the window, which overlooked the Alameda boardwalk.

Just then, the younger of these two travelers stood up and said to the other in French, “Pay close attention, my dear Martial. I’ll remind you one last time, before we retire, of everything we agreed to before we left home.”

“As you wish, monsieur.”

“Come now!” Jean exclaimed. “There you go, already forgetting your role the instant you open your mouth!”

“How did I forget my role?”

“You’re using the formal vous and not the familiar tu!”¹

“You’re right. But what do you expect, monsie—uh, Jean! Old habits die hard!”

“Hard? What are you saying, my dear Sergeant? We left France a month ago, and the whole way from Saint-Nazaire to Caracas you’ve been calling me by my first name!”

“That is true!” Sergeant Martial admitted.

“And here we are in Ciudad Bolívar, at the starting point of this journey that offers us the possibility of so much happiness … or disappointment … or sorrow…”

Jean had spoken these words with intense feeling. His chest quivered, his eyes moistened. However, seeing the alarm that came over the sergeant’s craggy features, the lad got a grip on himself.

Then he smiled again. “Yes, here we are in Ciudad Bolívar,” he chided, “and you pick a fine time to suddenly forget that you’re my uncle and I’m your nephew!”

“What an idiot I am!” Sergeant Martial answered, slapping himself sharply on the forehead.

“No, but you get distracted. Instead of you taking care of me, I have to … Look, my dear Martial, isn’t it customary for an uncle to address his nephew in a more familiar way?”

“Yes, it’s customary.”

“And the instant we boarded ship, didn’t I set you a good example by consistently calling you uncle?”

“Yes, you were so consistent. You didn’t let up even—”

“Even a little!” Jean cut in emphatically.

“Right, not even a little!” echoed Sergeant Martial, whose eyes softened whenever they settled on his make-believe nephew.

“And while we’re at it,” the other added, “don’t forget that the word ‘little’ is pequeño in Spanish.”

“Pequeño,” Sergeant Martial repeated over and over. “Not a bad word! I learned that one and maybe fifty others—but not a whole lot more, even though I’ve been racking my brains over them.”

“How thick can your skull be?” Jean went on. “During our trip over on the Pereire, I made you do your Spanish lessons every day.”

“What do you expect, Jean? I’ve spoken French my whole life, it’s torture for an old soldier my age to learn this Andalusian gibberish! Honestly, hell will freeze over before I’ll ever ‘Spaniardize’ myself, as some writer put it!”

“It’ll come, my dear Martial.”

“You’re right, it’s already happened with those fifty words I’ve been practicing. I know how to ask for something to eat: Deme usted algo de comer. Something to drink: Deme usted de beber. Somewhere to sleep: Deme usted una cama. Which way to go: Enseñeme usted el camino. How much it costs: Cuánto vale esto? Also I can say thanks: Gracias! And hello: Buenos dias. Good night: Buenas noches. How’re things: Cómo está usted? What’s more, I can cuss like I grew up in Aragon or Castille: Carambi de carambo de caramba—”²

“All right—all right!” Jean exclaimed, his cheeks turning red. “You didn’t learn those words from me, and you’d better not start swearing all over the place!”

“What do you expect, Jean? I’m an old NCO, and that’s how we are! All my life I’ve tossed around my hells and damns, and conversations that aren’t spiced up with a few cusswords seem lifeless to me! You know what I like best about this Spanish lingo that you talk like a señora?”

“Tell me, Sergeant.”

“Just this—Spanish has almost as many swearwords as regular words!”

“And naturally these are the ones that you have no trouble remembering!”

“You’ve got it, lad! And when I served under Colonel de Kermor, he didn’t care if I swore up a storm!”

At this mention of the name Colonel de Kermor, the young man’s face suddenly changed expression, while Sergeant Martial’s eyes began to moisten.

“You see, Jean,” he went on. “If God whispered to me, ‘Sergeant, in one hour you will shake your Colonel’s hand, but two minutes later I shall strike you dead.’ I’d answer back, ‘Whatever you say, Lord. Get your lightning ready and aim straight for the heart!’”

Wiping his eyes, Jean looked at the old soldier affectionately; he lacked polish, but he was absolutely honest and devoted. And when the old fellow tried to give him a hug, the boy caught his arms. “You need to be a little less fond of me, my dear Sergeant!” he said in a tender voice.

“Is that possible?”

“Possible, and essential—at least out in public, where people can see us.”

“But when they can’t see us?”

“You can treat me as nicely as you like, just be careful.”

“This is going to be hard!”

“Nothing is too hard if it has to be. Don’t forget who I am—a nephew whose uncle needs to be really strict with him.”

“Strict!” Sergeant Martial echoed, raising his big hands toward the sky.

“Yes, a nephew you were forced to bring along on this trip because you couldn’t leave him back home by himself for fear he’d get into trouble”

“Trouble!”

“A nephew you want to turn into a soldier like yourself.”

“A soldier!”

“Right, a soldier, one whom you need to toughen up. So you mustn’t skimp on the discipline when he deserves it.”

“And if he doesn’t deserve it?”

Sargeant Martial and his nephew Jean.

“He will, believe me,” Jean answered with a grin, “because he’s as green as they come!”

“Green!”

“So when you have to bawl him out in public—”

“I’ll beg his pardon in private!” Sergeant Martial exclaimed.

“As you wish, old friend, so long as nobody’s watching.”

Sergeant Martial gave his nephew a bear hug, first making sure that no busybody could see into the secluded hotel room.

“And now, my friend,” Jean said, “it’s time for bed. Off to your room next door, and I’ll lock myself in.”

“Do you want me to stand guard outside?” Sergeant Martial asked.

“Why bother? There’s no danger.”

“No doubt, but—”

“If you’re going to spoil me from the start, you’ll be a failure in your role as the stern uncle.”

“Stern! How can I possibly be stern with you?”

“You’ve got to be, to head off any suspicions.”

“So, Jean, why did you want to come along?”

“Because I had to.”

“But why didn’t you just stay home at Chantenay or Nantes?”³

“Because it was my duty not to.”

“Did you think I couldn’t make this trip by myself?”

“Not at all.”

“I’ve faced dangers my whole life. It’s my job! Besides, I’m in less danger than you are!”

“That’s why I need to be your nephew, my dear uncle.”

“Oh, if only we could’ve asked the Colonel first!” Sergeant Martial sighed.

“What do you mean?” Jean answered, puzzled.

“But no! It was impossible! But if we do get a lead on him in San Fernando and we’re ever able to find him, what is he going to say about all this?”

“He’ll thank his old sergeant for giving in to me and bringing me along. He’ll hug you and say that you’ve done your duty, just as I’ve done mine!”

“So, in other words,” Sergeant Martial exclaimed, “you’ll have gotten me to do everything you wanted!”

“That’s the way it is with uncles: they must always bow to their nephews’ whims! But not in public, for heaven’s sake!”

“No, not in public. That’s the rule!”

“And now, my dear Martial, off to bed and sleep tight. Tomorrow we need to be on board the Orinoco steamer at the crack of dawn, and we’d better not be late.”

“Good night, Jean.”

“Good night, my one and only friend! See you tomorrow, and God protect us!”

Sergeant Martial headed for the door, opened it, closed it carefully, and then made sure Jean had turned the key and bolted it on the inside. For a moment or two he stood still with his ear against the door. He could hear Jean murmuring his prayers before climbing into bed. Then, once he was certain the lad was under the sheets, he went to his own room, where his only prayer was to himself and consisted of smacking his forehead with his fist while saying: “Yes, may God protect us! Because it’s a devilish tall order, that’s for sure!”

Who are these two Frenchmen? Where are they from? What brings them to Venezuela? Why are they so set on masquerading as uncle and nephew? For what purpose are they taking one of the Orinoco steamers, and to which part of the great river are they headed?

Right now there are no detailed answers to these various questions. Time will tell, no doubt. In fact only time can tell.

All the same, from the preceding conversation a few things can be inferred.

These two Frenchmen were from the city of Nantes in the province of Brittany. If their origin is clear enough, there is plenty that is unclear about the nature of their relationship and about the circumstances that have thrown them together. To start with, just who was this Colonel de Kermor whose name kept popping up in their conversation, causing such intense feelings in these two?

Anyhow, the young man looks no older than sixteen or seventeen. He is of medium height and seems to have a sturdy constitution for his age. His face looks a little grim, even melancholic, because he is often lost in thought. But his features are attractive, his eyes are friendly, his smile reveals small white teeth, and his ruddy cheeks have been bronzed by the ocean air during their recent trip across the Atlantic.

The second of these two Frenchmen—a man on the verge of sixty—is the perfect embodiment of a career soldier, a battle-scarred veteran who remains in active service until old age catches up with him. Before retiring on a noncommissioned officer’s pay, he had served under Colonel de Kermor, whose life he had personally saved on the battlefield during the War of the Second Empire, which ended so disastrously in 1870–1871.⁴ He is your typical cranky, devoted old duffer who stays on in the home of his former commander and becomes the trusted family retainer who looks after the children when their parents are busy and who spoils them no matter what, giving them their first riding lessons by bouncing them on his knees, and their first music lessons by teaching them military fanfares.

Despite his sixty years, Sergeant Martial still stands tall and is full of vigor. He is a tough, seasoned campaigner, immune to heat and cold, neither freezing in Russia nor baking in Senegal. His constitution is strong, and his courage without equal. He is the soul of self-reliance, fearing nothing and no one, except perhaps himself, for he distrusts his slightest impulse. Tall and lean, his limbs have not lost an ounce of their strength, and even at his age he still keeps his faultless military bearing. He is a trooper, a warrior of the old school if ever there was one! But he is all the same still a decent, good-hearted fellow, and there is nothing that he would not do for those he loved! It seems, moreover, that the latter are limited to just two people in this whole wide world—Colonel de Kermor and young Jean, whose uncle he had agreed to become.

Consequently, he watches over the lad with tender loving care. He lavishes constant attention on him, despite all those promises to be stern! But do not ever ask him the reason for this stringent assignment, this role the Sergeant finds so disagreeable to play. If you did, what a hideous grimace you would receive, what a surly reply you would be given! In short, you would be politely told to “mind your own business.”

Exchanges of this sort had already occurred during their transatlantic voyage from the Old World to the New. Those passengers on the Pereire who tried to be friendly with Jean, who struck up conversations with him and started to pay him the usual shipboard courtesies, who seemed to take an interest in this young man so harshly disciplined by his cantankerous, antisocial uncle—they were all sent packing with orders not to try it again!⁵

In any event, the nephew was dressed in a simple, loose-fitting safari outfit—billowy jacket and pants, white pith helmet over his closely clipped hair, and boots with heavy soles. By contrast, the uncle was laced into a tight, knee-length jacket. It wasn’t actually his uniform but it had a military cut; only the stripes and epaulets were missing. Sergeant Martial could not get it through his head that he needed comfortable clothes appropriate for Venezuela’s climate, that he had better adopt a different manner of dress. And if he was not sporting his fatigue cap, it was only because Jean had insisted the old boy wear a white pith helmet like his own, a headpiece offering much better protection against the heat of the sun.

Sergeant Martial had followed orders. But he couldn’t care less about the sun, with his head of rough, close-cropped hair and his skull of boiler-plate.

It goes without saying that, since they could not renew their supplies en route, their luggage contained, without being overloaded, all the spare clothing, underwear, toilet articles, footwear, and everything that this type of trip required. There was also bedding and a basic arsenal of weapons and ammunition—a pair of revolvers for young Jean and a second pair for Sergeant Martial, not to mention a rifle that, being a skillful marksman, the latter might often find occasion to make good use of.

Often? Are the dangers so great in the Orinoco territory that one must stay permanently on the alert, like in the heart of darkest Africa? Are the riverbanks and the surrounding countryside constantly swarming with hordes of Indians, marauders, plunderers, cannibals?

Yes and no.

As indicated in the conversations between MM. Miguel, Felipe, and Varinas, the lower Orinoco from Ciudad Bolívar to the mouth of the Apure offered no serious threats. Its central portion, however, between the Apure and San Fernando de Atabapo, required a certain vigilance, especially around the Quivas Indians. As for the Orinoco’s upper reaches, the danger was clear—the tribes there lived in a state of absolute savagery.

It must not be forgotten that M. Miguel and his two colleagues had no plans to go farther than the village of San Fernando. Did Sergeant Martial and his nephew have a more distant location in mind? Might the goal of their trip lie beyond that village? Could some unforeseen circumstances take them to the very sources of the Orinoco? Nobody was in a position to answer such questions, these two least of all.

The only certainty was that Colonel de Kermor had left France fourteen years earlier, destination Venezuela. What took him there, what happened to him, what caused him to leave his homeland without a word to his comrades in arms—will the truth emerge as this tale unfolds? Few specifics on this subject could be found in the conversations of Sergeant Martial and young Jean.

Here is what the two of them had accomplished so far.

Three weeks before, after leaving their home in Chantenay outside Nantes, they had set sail from Saint-Nazaire aboard the Pereire, a steamer of the French Transatlantic

Line bound for the Caribbean. From there, another ship took them to La Guaira, port town for Caracas. Then, after a train ride of a few hours, they reached the Venezuelan capital itself.

They stayed only a week in Caracas. They did not spend it touring this otherwise interesting and picturesque city, whose lower reaches are separated from its heights by more than a thousand meters of elevation. They hardly would have had the time to go up Calvary Hill, from which every house in town can be seen—all of them built of lightweight materials due to the threat of earthquakes, such as the one in 1812 that killed twelve thousand people.

Caracas does, nevertheless, have many attractive parks, planted with rows of trees that remain green all year round, a number of handsome public buildings, a presidential palace, a cathedral of fine architecture, and many terraces overlooking the magnificent Caribbean—in short, all the vitality of a great city with a population of more than one hundred thousand people.

But not for one instant did these sights divert Sergeant Martial and his nephew from what they had come to do in this town. They had spent the last week gathering information on this journey they were about to undertake, a journey that might perhaps lead them as far as those distant and all-but-unknown regions of the Republic of Venezuela. The information they now possessed was still incomplete, but they hoped to fill in the blanks at San Fernando. From there, Jean was determined to continue his investigations as far as necessary, even into those hazardous lands around the upper Orinoco.

And Sergeant Martial knew only too well that, if he were to exert his authority and try to prevent Jean from braving the dangers of such a journey, he would run headlong into a tenacity quite extraordinary for a boy of that age, a willpower that nothing could weaken, and he would have no choice but to knuckle under.⁶

Arriving in La Guarira, port town for Caracas.

That is why these two Frenchmen, after reaching the town of Ciudad Bolívar, were to embark the next day on a steamer that provided service along the lower Orinoco.

“God protect us,” Jean had said. “Yes, may He protect us—in going as well as returning!”⁷