Читать книгу The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America - Robert Michael Ballantyne - Страница 2

Keeping the fire low in order to prevent its being seen by any of the wandering bands of patriots—alias soldiers, alias banditti—who might chance to be in the neighbourhood, the three travellers thus thrown unexpectedly together ate their supper in comparative silence, Lawrence and Pedro exchanging a comment on the viands now and then, and the handsome Indian girl sitting opposite to them with her eyes for the most part fixed on the ground, though now and then she raised them to take a quick stealthy glance at the huge youth whose appetite did not seem to be greatly affected by his misfortunes. Perhaps she was wondering whether all Englishmen, possessed such innocent kindly faces and such ungainly though powerful frames. It may be that she was contrasting him with the handsome well-knit Pedro at his side.

Whatever her thoughts might have been, the short glances of her lustrous eyes gave no clue to them, and her tongue was silent, save when she replied by some brief monosyllable to a remark or query put in the Indian language occasionally by Pedro. Sometimes a gleam of the firelight threw her fine brown features into bold relief, but on these occasions, when Lawrence Armstrong chanced to observe them, they conveyed no expression whatever save that of profound gravity, with a touch, perhaps, of sadness.

The bench being awkwardly situated for a table, they had arranged a small box, bottom up, instead. Lawrence and his new acquaintance seated themselves on the ground, and Manuela used her saddle as a chair.

Towards the end of their meal the two men became more communicative, and when Pedro had lighted a cigarette, they began to talk of their immediate future.

“You don’t smoke?” remarked Pedro in passing.

“No,” replied Lawrence.

“Not like the most of your countrymen,” said the other.

“So much the worse,” rejoined the youth.

“The worse for them or for you—which?” asked Pedro, with a significant glance.

“No matter,” returned Lawrence with a laugh.

“Well, now,” resumed Pedro, after a few puffs, during the emission of which his countenance assumed the expression of seriousness, which seemed most natural to it, “what do you intend to do? It is well to have that point fairly settled to-night, so that there may be no uncertainty or delay in the morning. I would not urge the question were it not that in the morning we must either go on together as travelling companions, or say our final adieux and part. I am not in the habit of prying into men’s private affairs, but, to speak the bare truth, I am naturally interested in one whose father has on more than one occasion done me good service. You need not answer me unless you please, senhor,” added the man with the air of one who is prepared to retire upon his dignity at a moment’s notice.

“Thanks, thanks, Pedro,” said the Englishman, heartily, “I appreciate your kindness, and accept your sympathy with gratitude. Moreover, I am glad to find that I have been thrown at such a crisis in my fortunes into the company of one who had regard for my dear father. But I scarce know what to do. I will give you my confidence unreservedly. Perhaps you may be able to advise—”

“Stay,” interrupted the other, on whose countenance a slightly stern expression hovered. “Before you give me unreserved confidence, it is but fair that I should tell you candidly that I cannot pay you back in kind. As to private matters, I have none that would be likely to interest any one under the sun. In regard to other things—my business is not my own. Why I am here and what I mean to do I have no right to reveal. Whither I am bound, however, is not necessarily a secret, and if you choose to travel with me you undoubtedly have a right to know.”

Young Armstrong expressed himself satisfied. He might have wished to know more, but, like Pedro, he had no desire to pry into other men’s affairs, and, being of an open confiding nature, was quite ready to take his companion on trust, even though he had been less candid and engaging in manner than he was. After explaining that he had been educated in Edinburgh, and trained to the medical profession, he went on to say that he had been hastily summoned to take charge of the sugar-mill at his father’s death, and that he had expected to find an old overseer, who would have instructed him in all that he had to do in a business with which he was totally unacquainted.

“You see,” he continued, “my father always said that he meant to retire on his fortune, and did not wish me to carry on the business, but, being naturally an uncommunicative man on business matters, he never gave me any information as to details. Of course, I had expected that his manager here, and his books, would reveal all that I required to know, but the soldiers have settled that question. Mill and books have gone together, and as to manager, clerks, and servants, I know not where they are.”

“Scattered, no doubt,” said Pedro, “here, there, and everywhere—only too glad to escape from a neighbourhood which has been given up to fire and sword by way of improving its political condition!”

“I know not,” returned Lawrence, sadly. “But it would be useless, I fear, to try to ferret them out.”

“Quite useless,” said Pedro. “Besides, what would it avail to talk with any of them about the affairs of a place that is now in ashes? But if your father spoke of his fortune, he must have had at least some of it in a bank somewhere.”

“True, but I don’t know where. All I know is that he once mentioned casually in one of his letters that he was going to Buenos Ayres, where he had some property.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Pedro. “Come, that may help you to decide, for I am myself going to Buenos Ayres, and can guide you there if disposed to go. Only, you will have to make up your mind to a pretty long and hard journey, for duty requires me to go by a devious route. You must know,” he continued, lighting another cigarette, “that I am pledged to take that girl to her father, who lives not far from Buenos Ayres.”

He pointed as he spoke to Manuela, who, having laid her head on her saddle, appeared to have fallen asleep.

“Her father must be a chief, I should think, to judge from her dignified, graceful carriage, as well as her fine features,” said Lawrence in a low tone.

“Yes, he is a chief—a great chief,” returned Pedro, gazing at his cigarette in a meditative mood—“a very great chief. You see, she happened to be living with friends on the western side of the mountains when this war between Chili and Peru broke out, and her father naturally wants to get her out of danger. The old chief once saved my life, so, you see, I am bound both by duty and gratitude to rescue his daughter.”

“Indeed you are, and a pleasant duty it must be,” returned Lawrence with an approving nod; “but don’t you think it might have been wise to have rescued some other female, a domestic for instance, to keep her company? The poor girl will feel very lonely on such a long journey as you speak of.”

Pedro again looked musingly at his cigarette, and flipped off the ash with his little finger.

“You have not had much experience of war, young man,” he said, “if you think that in cases of rescue men can always arrange things comfortably, and according to the rules of propriety. When towns and villages are in flames, when plunder and rapine run riot everywhere, and little children are spitted on the bayonets of patriots, as is often the case even in what men have agreed to term civilised warfare, one is glad to escape with the skin of one’s teeth. Yet I was not as regardless of Manuela’s comfort as you seem to think. A poor woman who had nursed her when a child volunteered to accompany us, and continued with us on the first part of our journey; but the exertion, as I had feared, was too much for her. She caught a fever and died, so that we were forced to come on alone. If you join us, however, I shall be greatly pleased, for two can always make a better fight than one, and in these unsettled times there is no saying what we may fall in with in crossing the mountains.”

“But why expose the poor girl to such risks?” asked Lawrence. “Surely there must be some place of safety nearer than Buenos Ayres, to which you might conduct her?”

“Senhor Armstrong,” replied the man, with a return of his stern expression, “I have told you that my business is urgent. Not even the rescue of my old friend’s daughter can turn me aside from it. When Manuela begged me to take her with me, I pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the route, and the necessity for my pursuing a long and devious course, but she said she feared to remain where she was; that, being young, strong, and accustomed to an active life, she felt sure she was equal to the journey; that she could trust me, and that she knew her father would approve of her taking the step. I agreed, with some hesitation. It turned out that the girl was right in her fears, for before we left the town it was attacked by the troops of Chili. The Peruvians made but a poor resistance, and it was carried by assault. When I saw that all hope of saving the place was gone, I managed to bring Manuela and her nurse away in safety. As I have told you, the nurse died, and now—here we are alone. Manuela chooses to run the risk. I will not turn aside from my duty. If you choose to join us, the girl will be safer—at least until we cross the mountains. On the other side I shall be joined by friends, if need be.”

Pedro ceased, and rekindled his cigarette, which had gone out during the explanation.

“I will go with you,” said Lawrence, with decision, as he extended his hand.

“Good,” replied Pedro, grasping it with a hearty squeeze; “now I shall have no fears for our little Indian, for robbers are cowards as a rule.”

“Have we, then, much chance of meeting with robbers?”

“Well, I should say we have little chance of altogether escaping them, for in times of war there are always plenty of deserters and other white-livered scoundrels who seize the opportunity to work their will. Besides, there are some noted outlaws in the neighbourhood of the pass we are going to cross. There’s Conrad of the Mountains, for instance. You’ve heard of him?”

“No, never.”

“Ah, senhor, that proves you to be a stranger here, for his name is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific—chiefly, however, on the east side of the Cordillera, and on the Pampas. He is an outlaw—at least he is said to be so; but one cannot believe all one hears. Some say that he is cruel, others that he is ferocious among men, but never hurts women or children.”

“Well, it is to be hoped we may not fall in with him, or any of his band,” said Lawrence; “for it is better to hear of his qualities than to put them to the test.”

“Yet, methinks,” resumed Pedro, “if you fell in with him alone you should have no cause to fear him, for you must be more than his match.”

“I don’t think I should fear him,” returned Lawrence, with a simple look. “As to being more than his match, I know not, for my spirit does not prompt me to light, and I cannot boast of much capacity in the use of arms—unless you count my good oak-cudgel a weapon. I have acquired some facility in the use of that, having practised singlestick as an amusement at school.”

As he spoke, the youth was surprised and somewhat startled by his companion suddenly drawing a pistol from his belt, and pointing it steadily at the open doorway of the hut. Turning his eyes quickly in that direction, he beheld, with increased astonishment, a pair of glaring eyes, two rows of glittering teeth, and a pair of thick red lips! The flesh which united these striking objects was all but invisible, by reason of its being nearly as black as its background.

Most eyes, if human, would have got away from a pistol’s line of fire with precipitancy, but the eyes referred to did not disappear. On the contrary, they paid no regard whatever to the owner of the pistol, but continued to glare steadily at Lawrence Armstrong. Seeing this, Pedro hesitated to pull the trigger. He was quick to defend himself, but not prompt to kill. When he saw that the eyes slowly advanced out of the gloom, that they with the lips and teeth belonged to a negro who advanced into the room unarmed and with outspread hands, he quietly lowered his weapon, and glanced at Lawrence. No doubt Pedro felt, as he certainly looked, perplexed, when he observed that Lawrence returned the intruder’s gaze with almost equal intensity.

Suddenly the negro sprang towards the Englishman. He was a short, thick-set, and exceedingly powerful man; yet Lawrence made no move to defend himself.

“Quashy!” he exclaimed, as the black fell on his knees, seized one of his hands, and covered it with kisses, at the same time bursting into tears.

“Oh! massa Lawrie—oh! massa Lawrie, why you no come sooner? Why you so long? De sodger brutes nebber dar to touch de ole house if you was dere. Oh! Massa Lawrie, you’s too late—too late!—My! how you’s growed!”

In the midst of his sobs the young negro, for he was little more than a youth, drew back his head to obtain a better view of his old companion and playmate.

Need we say that Lawrence reciprocated the affection of the man?

“He was a boy like myself when I was here,” said Lawrence in explanation to the amused Peruvian. “His father was one of my father’s most attached servants, whom he brought from Kentucky on his way to this land, and to whom he gave his freedom. Quashy himself used to be my playmate.—But tell me about the attack on the mill, Quash. Were you present?”

“Prisint! You bery sure I was, an’ I poke some holes in de varmints ’fore dey hoed away.”

“And how did you escape, Quash? Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”

The negro willingly complied. Meanwhile the Indian girl, who had been roused by his sudden entrance, resumed her seat on the saddle, and, looking intently into his black face, seemed to try to gather from the expression of his features something of what he said.

We need not repeat the story. It was a detailed account of murder and destruction; the burning of the place and the scattering of the old servants. Fortunately Lawrence had no relatives to deplore.

“But don’t you know where any of the household have gone?” he asked, when the excited negro paused to recover breath.

“Don’t know nuffin’. Arter I poke de holes in de scoundrils, I was ’bleeged to bolt. When I come back, de ole house was in flames, an’ eberybody gone—what wasn’t dead. I hollered—ay, till I was a’most busted—but nobody reply. Den I bury de dead ones, an’ I’ve hoed about eber since slobberin’ an’ wringin’ my hands.”

“Was our old clerk among the slain?” asked Lawrence.

“No, massa, but I tinks he’s a dead one now, for he too ole to run far.”

“And I suppose you can’t even guess where any of those who escaped went to?”

“Couldn’t guess more nor a Red Injin’s noo-born babby.”

“Quashy,” said Lawrence in a low voice, “be careful how you speak of Indians.”

He glanced, as he spoke, at Manuela, who now sat with grave face and downcast eyes, having apparently found that the human countenance, however expressive, failed to make up for the want of language.

And, truly, Quashy’s countenance was unwontedly mobile and expressive. Every feature seemed to possess the power of independently betraying the thoughts and feelings of the man, so that when they all united for that end the effect was marvellous. Emotional, and full of quick sympathy, Quashy’s visage changed from grave to gay, pitiful to fierce, humorous to savage, at a moment’s notice. When, therefore, he received the gentle rebuke above referred to, his animated countenance assumed a sudden aspect of utter woe and self-condemnation that may be conceived but cannot be described, and when Lawrence gave vent to a short laugh at the unexpected change, Quashy’s eyes glistened with an arch look, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.

And what an expansion that was, to be sure! when you take into account the display of white teeth and red gums by which it was accompanied.

“Well, now, Quash,” resumed Lawrence, “what did you do after that?”

“Arter what, massa?”

“After finding that slobbering and wringing your hands did no good.”

“Oh! arter dat, I not know what to do, an’ den I tried to die—I was so mis’rable. But I couldn’t. You’ve no notion how hard it is to die when you wants to. Anyhow I couldn’t manage it, so I gib up tryin’.”

At this point Manuela rose, and, bidding Pedro good-night in the Indian tongue, passed into her little chamber and shut the door.

“And what do you intend to do now, Quash?” asked Lawrence.

“Stick to you, massa, troo t’ick an’ t’in,” returned the negro with emphatic promptitude, which caused even Pedro to laugh.

“My poor fellow, that is impossible,” said Lawrence, who then explained his position and circumstances, showing how it was that he had little money and no immediate prospect of obtaining any,—that, in short, he was about to start out in the wide world friendless and almost penniless to seek his fortune. To all of which the negro listened with a face so utterly devoid of expression of any kind that his old master and playmate could not tell how he took it.

“And now,” he asked in conclusion, “what say you to all that?”

“Stick to you troo t’ick and t’in,” repeated Quashy, in a tone of what might be styled sulky firmness.

“But,” said Lawrence, “I can’t pay you any wages.”

“Don’ want no wages,” said Quashy.

“Besides,” resumed Lawrence, “even if I were willing to take you, Senhor Pedro might object.”

“I no care for Senhor Pedro one brass buttin,” retorted the negro.

The Peruvian smiled rather approvingly at this candid expression of opinion.

“Where you gwine?” asked Quashy, abruptly.

“To Buenos Ayres.”

“I’s gwine to Bens Airies too. I’s a free nigger, an’ no mortial man kin stop me.”

As Quashy remained obdurate, and, upon consultation, Lawrence and Pedro came to the conclusion that such a sturdy, resolute fellow might be rather useful in the circumstances, it was finally arranged, to the poor fellow’s inexpressible delight, that he should accompany them in their long journey to the far east.