That Benee was a good man and true we have little reason to doubt, up to
the present time at all events.
Yet Dick Temple was, curiously enough, loth to believe that Mr. Peter
was other than a friend. And nothing yet had been proved against him.
"Is it not natural enough," said he to Roland, "that he should funk--to
put it in fine English--the terrible expedition you and I are about to
embark upon? And knowing that you have commanded him to accompany us
would, in my opinion, be sufficient to account for his attempt to escape
and drop down the river to Para, and so home to his own country.
Roland, I repeat, we must give the man a show."
"True," said Roland, "and poor Benee is having his show. Time alone can
prove who the traitor is. If it be Benee he will not return. On the
contrary, he will join the savage captors of poor Peggy, and do all in
his power to frustrate our schemes."
No more was said.
But the preparations were soon almost completed, and in a day or two
after this, farewells being said, the brave little army began by forced
marches to find its way across country and through dense forests and
damp marshes, and over rocks and plains, to the Madeira river, high
above its junction with the great Amazon.
----
Meanwhile let us follow the lonely Indian in his terrible journey to the
distant and unexplored lands of Bolivia.
Like all true savages, he despised the ordinary routes of traffic or
trade; his track must be a bee-line, guiding himself by the sun by day,
but more particularly by the stars by night.
Benee knew the difference betwixt stars and planets. The latter were
always shifting, but certain stars--most to him were like lighthouses to
mariners who are approaching land--shone over the country of the
cannibals, and he could tell from their very altitude how much progress
he was making night after night.
So lonesome, so long, was his thrice dreary journey, that had it been
undertaken by a white man, in all probability he would soon have been a
raving maniac.
But Benee had all the cunning, all the daring, and all the wisdom of a
true savage, and for weeks he felt a proud exhilaration, a glorious
sense of freedom and happiness, at being once more his own master, no
work to do, and hope ever pointing him onwards to his goal.
What was that goal? it may well be asked. Was Benee disinterested? Did
he really feel love for the white man and the white man's children? Can
aught save selfishness dwell in the breast of a savage? In brief, was
it he who had been the spy, he who was the guilty man; or was it Peter
who was the villain? Look at it in any light we please, one thing is
certain, this strange Indian was making his way back to his own country
and to his own friends, and Indians are surely not less fond of each
other than are the wild beasts who herd together in the forest, on the
mountain-side, or on the ice in the far-off land of the frozen north.
And well we know that these creatures will die for each other.
If there was a mystery about Peter, there was something approaching to
one about Benee also.
But then it must be remembered that since his residence on the St. Clair
plantation, Benee had been taught the truths of that glorious religion
of ours, the religion of love that smoothes the rugged paths of life for
us, that gives a silver lining to every cloud of grief and sorrow, and
gilds even the dark portals of death itself.
Benee believed even as little children do. And little Peggy in her
quiet moods used to tell him the story of life by redemption in her
almost infantile way.
For all that, it is hard and difficult to vanquish old superstitions,
and this man was only a savage at heart after all, though, nevertheless,
there seemed to be much good in his rough, rude nature, and you may
ofttimes see the sweetest and most lovely little flowers growing on the
blackest and ruggedest of rocks.
Well, this journey of Benee's was certainly no sinecure. Apart even
from all the dangers attached to it, from wild beasts and wilder men, it
was one that would have tried the hardest constitution, if only for the
simple reason that it was all a series of forced marches.
There was something in him that was hurrying him on and encouraging him
to greater and greater exertions every hour. His daily record depended
to a great extent on the kind of country he had to negotiate. He began
with forty miles, but after a time, when he grew harder, he increased
this to fifty and often to sixty. It was at times difficult for him to
force his way through deep, dark forest and jungle, along the winding
wild-beast tracks, past the beasts themselves, who hid in trees ready to
spring had he paused but a second; through marshes and bogs, with here
and there a reedy lake, on which aquatic birds of brightest colours
slept as they floated in the sunshine, but among the long reeds of which
lay the ever-watchful and awful cayman.
In such places as these, I think Benee owed his safety to his utter
fearlessness and sang-froid, and to the speed at which he travelled.
It was not a walk by any means, but a strange kind of swinging trot.
Such a gait may still be seen in far-off outlying districts of the
Scottish Highlands, where it is adopted by postal "runners", who
consider it not only faster but less tiresome than walking.
For the first hundred miles, or more, the lonely traveller found himself
in a comparatively civilized country. This was not very much to his
liking, and as a rule he endeavoured to give towns and villages, and
even rubber forests, where Indians worked under white men overseers, a
wide berth.
Yet sometimes, hidden in a tree, he would watch the work going on; watch
the men walking hither and thither with their pannikins, or deftly
whirling the shovels they had dipped in the sap-tub and holding them in
the dark smoke of the palm-tree nuts, or he would listen to their songs.
But it was with no feeling of envy; it was quite the reverse.
For Benee was free! Oh what a halo of happiness and glory surrounds
that one little word "Free"!
Then this lonely wanderer would hug himself, as it were, and, dropping
down from his perch, start off once more at his swinging trot.
Even as the crow flies, or the bee wings its flight, the length of
Benee's journey would be over six hundred miles. But it was impossible
for anyone to keep a bee-line, owing to the roughness of the country and
the difficulties of every kind to be overcome, so that it is indeed
impossible to estimate the magnitude of this lone Indian's exploit.
His way, roughly speaking, lay between the Madeira River and the Great
Snake River called Puras (_vide_ map); latterly it would lead him to the
lofty regions and plateaux of the head-waters of Maya-tata, called by
the Peruvians the Madre de Dios, or Holy Virgin River.
But hardly a day now passed that he had not a stream of some kind to
cross, and wandering by its banks seeking for a ford delayed him
considerably.
He was journeying thus one morning when the sound of human voices not
far off made him creep quickly into the jungle.
The men did not take long to put in an appearance.
A portion of some wandering, hunting, or looting tribe they were, and
cut-throat looking scoundrels everyone of them--five in all.
They were armed with bows and arrows and with spears. Their arrows,
Benee could see, were tipped with flint, and the flint was doubtless
poisoned. They carried also slings and broad knives in their belts of
skin. The slings are used in warfare, but they are also used by
shepherds--monsters who, like many in this country, know not the meaning
of the words "mercy to dumb animals"--on their poor sheep.
These fellows, who now lay down to rest and to eat, much to Benee's
disgust, not to say dismay, were probably a party of llama (pronounced
yahmah) herds or shepherds who had, after cutting their master's throat,
banded together and taken to this roving life.
So thought Benee, at all events, for he could see many articles of
European dress, such as dainty scarves of silk, lace handkerchiefs, &c.,
as well as brooches, huddled over their own clothing, and one
fierce-looking fellow pulled out a gold watch and pretended to look at
the time.
So angry was Benee that his savage nature got uppermost, and he handled
his huge revolvers in a nervous way that showed his anxiety to open fire
and spoil the cut-throats' dinner. But he restrained himself for the
time being.
In addition to the two revolvers, Benee carried the repeating rifle. It
was the fear of spoiling his ammunition that led to his being in this
dreadful fix. But for his cartridges he could have swum the river with
the speed of a gar-fish.
What a long, long time they stayed, and how very leisurely they munched
and fed!
A slight sound on his left flank caused Benee to gaze hastily round. To
his horror, he found himself face to face with a puma.
Here was indeed a dilemma!
If he fired he would make his presence known, and small mercy could he
expect from the cut-throats. At all hazards he determined to keep still.
The yellow eyes of this American lion flared and glanced in a streak of
sunshine shot downwards through the bush, and it was this probably which
dimmed his vision, for he made no attempt to spring forward.
Benee dared scarcely to breathe; he could hear the beating of his own
heart, and could not help wondering if the puma heard it too.
At last the brute backed slowly astern, with a wriggling motion.
But Benee gained courage now.
During the long hours that followed, several great snakes passed him so
closely that he could have touched their scaly backs. Some of these
were lithe and long, others very thick and slow in motion, but nearly
all were beautifully coloured in metallic tints of crimson, orange,
green, and bronze, and all were poisonous.
The true Bolivian, however, has but little fear of snakes, knowing that
unless trodden upon, or otherwise actively interfered with, they care
not to waste their venom by striking.
At long, long last the cut-throats got up to leave. They would before
midnight no doubt reach some lonely outpost and demand entertainment at
the point of the knife, and if strange travellers were there, sad indeed
would be their fate.
Benee now crawled, stiff and cramped, out from his damp and dangerous
hiding-place. He found a ford not far off, and after crossing, he set
off once more at his swinging trot, and was soon supple and happy
enough.
On and on he went all that day, to make up for lost time, and far into
the starry night.
The hills were getting higher now, the valleys deeper and damper
between, and stream after stream had to be forded.
It must have been long past eight o'clock when, just as Benee was
beginning to long for food and rest, his eyes fell on a glimmering light
at the foot of a high and dark precipice.
He warily ventured forward and found it proceeded from a shepherd's hut;
inside sat the man himself, quietly eating a kind of thick soup, the
basin flanked by a huge flagon of milk, with roasted yams. Great,
indeed, was the innocent fellow's surprise when Benee presented himself
in the doorway. A few words in Bolivian, kindly uttered by our
wayfarer, immediately put the man at ease, however, and before long
Benee was enjoying a hearty supper, followed by a brew of excellent
mate.
He was a very simple son of the desert, this shepherd, but a desultory
kind of conversation was maintained, nevertheless, until far into the
night.
For months and months, he told Benee, he had lived all alone with his
sheep in these grassy uplands, having only the companionship of his
half-wild, but faithful dog. But he was contented and happy, and had
plenty to eat and drink.
It was just sunrise when Benee awoke from a long refreshing sleep on his
bed of skins. There was the odour of smoke all about, and presently the
shepherd himself bustled in and bade him "Good-morning!", or "Heaven's
blessing!" which is much the same.
A breakfast of rough, black cake, with butter, fried fish, and mate,
made Benee as happy as a king and as fresh as a mountain trout, and soon
after he said farewell and started once more on his weary road. The only
regret he experienced rose from the fact that he had nothing wherewith
to reward this kindly shepherd for his hospitality.
Much against his will, our wanderer had now to make a long detour, for
not even a goat could have scaled the ramparts of rock in front of him.
In another week he found himself in one of the bleakest and barrenest
stretches of country that it is possible to imagine. It was a high
plateau, and covered for the most part with stunted bushes and with
crimson heath and heather.
Benee climbed a high hill that rose near him, and as he stood on the top
thereof, just as the sun in a glory of orange clouds and crimson rose
slowly and majestically over the far-off eastern forest, a scene
presented itself to him that, savage though he was, caused him for a
time to stand mute with admiration and wonder.
Then he remembered what little Peggy told him once in her sweet and
serious voice: "Always pray at sunrise".
"Always pray at sunrise,
For 'tis God who makes the day;
When shades of evening gather round
Kneel down again and pray.
And He, who loves His children dear,
Will send some angel bright
To guard you while you're sleeping sound
And watch you all the night."
And on this lonely hill-top Benee did kneel down to pray a simple
prayer, while golden clouds were changing to bronze and snowy white, and
far off on the forest lands hazy vapours were still stretched across
glens and valleys.
As he rose from his knees he could hear, away down beneath him, a wild
shout, and gazing in the direction from which it came, he saw seven
semi-nude savages hurrying towards the mountain with the evident
intention of making him prisoner.
It was terrible odds; but as there was no escape, Benee determined to
fight.
As usual, they were armed with bow and arrow and sling.
Indeed, they commenced throwing stones with great precision before they
reached the hill-foot, and one of these fell at Benee's feet.
Glad, indeed, was he next minute to find himself in a kind of natural
trench which could have been held by twenty men against a hundred.
On and up, crawling on hands and knees, came the savages.
But Benee stood firm, rifle in hand, and waiting his chance.