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THE INSURGENT CHIEF.
by
GUSTAVE AIMARD,
Author of "Queen of the Savannah," "Indian Chief," "Red Track," etc,
London:
J. A. Berger, 13, Catherine St., Strand,
And All Booksellers.
THE INSURGENT CHIEF.
CONTENTS
Book I--THE PINCHEYRAS
I. THE CALLEJÓN DE LAS CRUCES.
II. THE LETTER.
III. THE RECLUSES.
IV. THE INTERVIEW.
V. THE PREPARATIONS OF TYRO.
VI. COMPLICATIONS.
VII. THE PANIC.
VIII. THE SOLITARY.
IX. THE INDIAN.
X. ACROSS COUNTRY.
Book II--THE MONTONERO
I. EL RINCÓN DEL BOSQUECILLO.
II. THE TREATY.
III. THE COUGAR.
IV. THE TWO CHIEFS.
V. THE ROYAL ARMY.
VI. AT CASA-FRAMA.
VII. THE INTERVIEW.
VIII. THE TOLDO.
IX. IN THE MOUNTAIN.
X. THE PARTISAN.
XI. THE CAPTIVES.
BOOK I.--THE PINCHEYRAS
CHAPTER I.
THE CALLEJÓN DE LAS CRUCES.
Although the town of San Miguel de Tucuman is not very ancient, and its
construction dates scarcely two centuries back, nevertheless--thanks,
perhaps, to the calm and studious population which inhabit it--it has
a certain middle age odour which is profusely exhaled from the old
cloisters of its convents, and from the thick and gloomy walls of its
churches. The grass in the low quarters of the town freely grows in
the nearly always deserted streets; and here and there some wretched
old house crumbling with age, leaning over the river which washes its
foundations, incomprehensible miracle of equilibrium--presents to the
curious look of the artistic traveller the most picturesque effects.
The Callejón de las Cruces, especially--a narrow and tortuous street,
lined with low and sombre houses--which at one end abuts on the river,
and at the other on the street de las Mercaderes, is, without doubt,
one of the most singularly picturesque in the town.
At the period of our history, and perhaps at the present time, the
greater part of the right side of the Callejón de las Cruces was
occupied by a high and large house, of a cold and sombre aspect, whose
thick walls, and the iron bars with which its windows wore furnished,
made it resemble a prison.
However, it was nothing of the sort. This house was a kind of nunnery,
such as are often met with even, now in Belgian and Dutch Flanders, so
long possessed by the Spaniards, and which served for a retreat for
women of all classes of society, who, without having positively taken
vows, wished to live sheltered from the storms of the world, and to
devote the remainder of their lives to exercises of piety, and works of
benevolence.
As the reader has seen, by the description which we gave of the place
when it came under notice, this house was thoroughly appropriated to
its uses, and there continually reigned around it a peacefulness and a
calm which made it rather resemble a vast necropolis than a partially
religious community of women.
Every sound died without an echo on the threshold of the door of this
gloomy house; sounds of joy, as well as cries of anger--the uproars
of _fêtes_, as well as the rumblings on insurrection--nothing could
galvanise it, or rouse it from its majestic and sombre indifference.
However, one evening--the very night when the governor of San Miguel
had given, at the Cabildo, a ball to celebrate the victory gained by
Zeno Cabral over the Spaniards[1]--towards midnight, a troop of armed
men, whose measured tread sounded heavily in the darkness, had left
the street de las Mercaderes, turned into the Callejón de las Cruces,
and, having reached the massive and solidly bolted door of the house of
which we have spoken, they stopped.
He who appeared to be the chief of these men had knocked three times
with the pommel of his sword on the door, which was immediately opened.
This man had, in a low voice, exchanged a few words with an invisible
person; then, on a sign from himself, the ranks of his troop opened,
and four women--four spectres, perhaps--draped in long veils, which
did not allow any part of their person to be perceived, entered
the house silently, and in a line. Some few words further had been
exchanged between the chief of the troop and the invisible doorkeeper
of this mysterious house; then the door had been again noiselessly
closed, as it had been opened; the soldiers returned by the way they
had come, and all was over.
This singular circumstance had transpired without awakening in any way
the attention of the poor people who lived in the vicinity. The greater
part were assisting at the _fête_ in the streets or in the squares of
the high quarters of the town; the remainder were sleeping, or Were
too indifferent to trouble themselves about any noise whatever at so
advanced an hour of the night.
So that, on the morrow, the inhabitants of the Callejón de las Cruces
would have been quite unable to give the slightest account of what had
passed at midnight in their street, at the gate of the Black House as
among themselves they called this gloomy habitation, for which they had
a strong dislike, and which was far from enjoying a good reputation
among them.
Several days had passed since the _fête_, the town had resumed its calm
and peaceful appearance, only the troops had not raised their camp--on
the contrary, the _Montonera_ of Don Zeno Cabral had installed itself
at a short distance from them.
Vague rumours, which circulated in the town, gave rise to the belief
that the revolutionists were preparing a great expedition against the
Spaniards.
Emile Gagnepain--much annoyed at first at being continually the sport
of events, and at seeing his free will completely annihilated for
the benefit of others, and especially at being obliged, in spite of
himself, to be mixed up with politics, when he would have been so happy
to pass his days in wandering about the country, and particularly in
dreamily stretching himself on the grass--had finished by making up
his mind to these continual quarrels in which he could do nothing. He
had, till better times arrived, resigned himself to his fate with that
philosophic carelessness which formed the foundation of his character;
and this the more readily, as he was not long in perceiving that his
position as secretary to the Duc de Mantone was rather nominal than
actual, and that, in fact, it was a magnificent sinecure, inasmuch as
during the fortnight he had been supposed to fulfil its duties, the
diplomatist had not given him a syllable to write.
Although both lived in the same house, the patron and the nominal
secretary only saw one another rarely, and, ordinarily, did not meet
but at meals, when the same table served them. Two or three days
sometimes passed without their seeing each other.
M. Dubois, completely absorbed in the intricate combinations of
politics, often passed the day in long and serious conferences with
the chiefs of the executive power. He had been charged with a very
difficult work on the election of the deputies to the general congress,
which was about to be held at San Miguel de Tucuman, and in which the
independence of the provinces of the ancient vice-royalty of Buenos
Aires was about to be proclaimed.
So that, spite of the lively interest which he had in his young
countryman, the diplomatist was obliged to neglect him--of which
the latter by no means complained; on the contrary, profiting
conscientiously by the agreeable leisure which politics gave to him,
he gave himself up with delight to the contemplative life so dear to
artists, and lounged whole days about the town and country, in quest of
picturesque points of view, and of fine landscapes.
This search was by no means unprofitable in a country such as that in
which he was accidently living, where nature, yet but little spoiled
or marred by the unintelligent hand of man, possessed that seal of
majesty and of grandeur which God alone knows how to impress so royally
alike upon the most vast and the meanest works which spring from His
all-powerful hands.
The inhabitants, accustomed to see the young man among them,
attracted by his handsome and frank countenance, by his gentle
manners and his careless air, were, by degrees, familiarised with
him; and, notwithstanding that he was a European, and especially a
Frenchman--that is to say, a _gringo_ or heretic--had at last come to
be very friendly to him, and allowed him to go wherever fancy led him,
without following him with an uneasy curiosity, or worrying him with
indiscreet questions.
Moreover, in the state of political excitement in which the country was
at this time, when every passion was in ebullition, and revolutionary
ideas turned every head, it appeared so strange to see a man walking
about continually with an unconcerned air, carelessly looking about him
with a smile on his lips, and his hands in his pockets, without regret
for yesterday or care for tomorrow, that this man justly passed for a
kind of phenomenon. Everyone envied him, and felt constrained to love
him, by reason even of his placid indifference. He alone, perhaps, did
not perceive the effect produced by his presence, when he rambled about
the square or the most populous streets of the town; and he continued
his promenade without even considering that he was for those whose path
he crossed a walking enigma, of which they vainly sought the key. Some
even, quite astounded by this magnificent indifference, which they
could not comprehend, went so far as to believe that if he were not
completely mad, at least he had some tendencies that way.
Emile occupied himself neither with one nor the other. He continued
his careless open air life, following with his eyes the birds in their
flight, listening for hours together to the mysterious murmur of a
cascade, or in rapture with a splendid sunset in the Cordillera. Then,
in the evening, he philosophically re-entered his lodging, murmuring
between his teeth:
"Is not all this admirable! How much better this than politics!
_Parbleu!_ He must be an idiot who does not see it. Positively, people
are absurd, they are asses! They would be so happy if they would only
consent to live carelessly, without seeking to free themselves from
their masters. As if, when some masters are gone, others will not
immediately come! Positively they are animals fit to eat hay!"
The next day he resumed his walks, and so day after day, without
worrying himself about a mode of life so agreeable and happy; and in
this he was perfectly right.
The young painter, as we have already said, lived in a house placed at
the disposal of M. Dubois by the Buenos Airean Government, and situated
on the Plaza Mayor, under the gates. The young man, on stepping out
of his house, found himself in face of a wide street, furnished with
shops, which led out of the square. This street was the Calle de las
Mercaderes. Now, the painter had been in the habit of going straight
on, of following the Calle Mercaderes, at the end of which was the
Callejón de las Cruces; he then entered the Callejón, and arrived,
without any turning, at the river. Thus, twice a day--in the morning in
going out, and in the evening in returning from his promenade--Emile
Gagnepain passed the entire length of the Callejón de las Cruces.
He stopped sometimes for a considerable time to admire the graceful
outline of some gable ends, dating from the earlier years of the
conquest, and preferred to traverse this silent and solitary street,
where he could freely give himself up to his thoughts without fear
of being interrupted, rather than to take the streets of the higher
quarters, where it was impossible to take a step without meeting some
acquaintance whom he could not have passed without exchanging a few
words, or at least without a bow--things which annoyed him much, as
they broke the thread of his thoughts.
One morning when, according to custom, Emile Gagnepain had begun his
walk, and was pensively traversing the Callejón de las Cruces, at the
moment when he was passing the house of which we have spoken, he felt a
slight tap on the crown of his hat, as if some light object had struck
it, and a flower immediately fell at his feet.
The young man stopped with astonishment. His first movement was to
raise his head, but he saw nothing; the old house had still its
accustomed mournful and sombre aspect.
"Hum!" murmured he; "What does that mean? This flower, at all events,
has not fallen from the sky."
He stooped down, picked it up delicately, and examined it with care.
It was a white rose, scarcely half opened, and still fresh and damp
with dew.
Emile remained an instant wrapped in thought.
"Well, that is odd," said he; "this flower has only been gathered a
few minutes; is it not to me that it has been thrown? Nay," added he,
looking around him, "it would be very difficult to have thrown it
to another, for I am alone. This deserves reflection. I must not be
carried away by vanity. I'll wait till the evening."
And he continued his walk, after having vainly explored, with an
anxious look, all the windows of this solitary house.
This incident, slight as it was, was sufficient to trouble the artist
during the remainder of his promenade.
He was young, he believed himself good-looking; and, moreover, he
had more than a reasonable share of vanity. His imagination soon
carried him away. He called to mind all the love stories he had heard
related in relation to Spain; and, putting this and that together,
he soon arrived at this conclusion, excessively flattering to his
self-love--that a beautiful _Señora_, held prisoner by some jealous
husband, had seen him pass under her windows, had felt herself drawn
towards him by an irresistible passion, and had thrown him this flower
to attract his attention.
This conclusion was absurd, it was true but it immensely pleased the
painter, whose self-love, as we have said, it flattered.
During the whole day the young man was burning with anxiety; twenty
times he thought of returning, but, happily, reflection came to his
aid, and he came to the conclusion that too much haste would compromise
the success of his adventure, and that it would be better not again to
pass the house till the hour when he was in the habit of returning home.
"In this way," said he, with a knowing air--questioning himself to
avoid a disillusion, if, which was possible, he was deceived--"if she
expects me, she will throw me another flower; then I will buy a guitar,
a mantle the colour of the wall, and I will come like a lover of the
time of the Cid Campeador, by starlight, to tell her my love."
But, notwithstanding this mockery, which he addressed to himself as he
wandered about, he was much more concerned in the matter than he was
ready to confess, and every moment he was consulting his watch to see
if the hour for his return was near.
Although we may not be in love--and certainly the painter only felt
at this moment a curiosity which he could not explain; for it was
impossible for him to entertain any other feeling for a person whom
he did not know: nevertheless the unknown--the unforeseen, if you
will--has an indefinable charm, and exerts a powerful attraction on
certain excitable organisations, which induces them in a moment to
build up suppositions which they are not slow to consider as realities,
until the truth suddenly comes, as a drop of cold water thrown into a
boiling fluid will in a moment stop the evaporation of steam.
When the painter thought the hour had arrived, he turned back towards
home. Affecting, perhaps, a little too visibly--if anyone had had an
interest in watching his movements and gestures--the manners of a man
completely indifferent, he reached the Callejón de las Cruces, and soon
arrived near the house.
Spite of himself, the young man felt that he was flushed; his heart
beat rapidly, and he had a buzzing in his ears, as when the blood,
suddenly excited, rushes to the head.
All of a sudden, he felt a pretty smart shock to his hat.
He briskly raised his head.
Sudden as had been his movement, he could see nothing; only he heard a
slight noise as if a window had been cautiously closed.
Disappointed at this second and unsuccessful attempt to perceive
the person who was thus interested in him, he remained for a moment
motionless; then, recollecting the ridiculousness of his position in
the middle of a street, and under the eyes of people who were, perhaps,
watching him from behind a window blind, he resumed his apparent
coolness and indifference, and looked on the ground about him for the
object which had so suddenly struck him.
He soon perceived it two or three paces from him.
This time it was not a flower. The object, whatever it was--for at
first he could not be certain of it--was enveloped in paper, and tied
carefully with a purple silk thread several times round the paper.
"Oh, oh!" thought the painter, picking up the little roll of paper, and
rapidly hiding it in the pocket of the waistcoat which he wore under
his poncho; "This complicates the matter. Are we already to write to
one another? The devil! This is making rapid progress, indeed!"
He began to walk rapidly to reach his lodgings; but soon reflecting
that this unaccustomed proceeding would astonish people who were in
the habit of seeing him, lounging and looking about him, he checked
himself, and resumed his ordinary pace.
But his hand was incessantly going to his pocket, to feel the object
which he had so carefully deposited there.
"God pardon me," said he, after a time! "I believe it is a ring. Oh,
oh! That would be charming! Upon, my word, I return to my first idea--I
will buy a guitar, and a mantle the colour of the wall, and in making
love to my beautiful unknown--for she is beautiful, I doubt not--I will
forget the torments of exile. But," said he, suddenly stopping right
in the middle of the square, and throwing up his arms with a desperate
air, "if she is ugly! Ugly women have often extraordinary ideas which
seize them, they know not why. Ah! That would be frightful! Come! What
am I talking about? The devil take me, if I am not becoming stupid! She
cannot be ugly, for the very simple, reason that all the Spaniards are
pretty."
And reassured by this reasoning, the deduction from which was so
pleasant, the young man pursued his journey.
As the reader has been in a position to perceive, Emile Gagnepain loved
talking to himself--sometimes even he went to extravagant lengths--but
the fault was not his. Thrown by chance in a foreign land, only
speaking with difficulty the language of the people among whom he found
himself, and not having near him any friend to whom he could confide
his joys and his troubles, he was to some extent obliged to make a
confidant of himself; so true is it that man is an eminently social
animal, and that life in common is indispensable to him, through the
incessant want which he experiences in each circumstance of his life,
of unburdening his heart, and of sharing with some one of his own
species the sweet or painful sentiments which it feels.
While he was still reflecting, the young man arrived at the house
which, he occupied in common with M. Dubois.
An attendant seemed to be waiting for his arrival. As soon as he
perceived the painter, he quickly approached him, and after having
respectfully saluted him--
"I beg your pardon, your lordship," said he to him, "my lord duke has
several times asked for you today. He has left orders that as soon as
you arrive we should ask you to go to his apartment."
"Very well," he answered, "I will go there immediately."
So saying, instead of turning to the right to enter the part of the
house which he occupied, he went towards the great staircase situated
at the bottom of the court, and which led to the apartment of M. Dubois.
"Is it not strange," murmured he, mounting the staircase, "that this
nuisance of a man, of whom I never know how to speak, should just want
me at the very moment when I desire to be alone?"
M. Dubois waited for him in a large room rather richly furnished, in
which he was pacing up and down, his head lowered and his arms crossed
behind his back, like a man occupied with serious reflections.
As soon as he perceived the young man, he advanced rapidly towards him.
"Oh, you have come!" cried he. "For two hours I have been waiting for
you. What has become of you?"
"I! Why, I have been walking. What would you have me do? Life is so
short!"
"Always the same!" pursued the duke, laughing.
"I shall take good care not to change; I am too happy as I am."
"Sit down, we have to talk seriously."
"The devil!" said the young man, seating himself on a butaca.
"Why this exclamation?"
"Because your exordium appears to me to be of bad omen."
"Come, you who are so brave!"
"That's possible, but, you know, I have an unconquerable fear of
politics, and it is probably of politics that you wish to talk to me."
"You have guessed it at the first trial."
"Then, I was sure of it," said he, with a despairing air.
"This is the matter on hand--"
"Pardon, could you not put off this grave conversation to a later
period?"
"Why should I do so?"
"Why, because that would be so much gained for me."
"Impossible!" pursued M. Dubois, laughing; "You must take your part in
it."
"Then, since it must be so," said he, with a sigh, "what is the
question?"
"Here are the facts in a few words. You know that affairs are becoming
more and more serious, and that the Spaniards, who, it was hoped, were
conquered, have resumed a vigorous offensive, and have gained some
important successes for some time past."
"I! I know nothing at all, I assure you."
"But how do you pass your time, then?"
"I have told you--I walk; I admire the works of God--which, between
ourselves, I find much superior to those of men--and I am happy."
"You are a philosopher."
"I do not know."
"In a word, here is the matter in question. The Government, frightened,
with reason, at the progress of the Spaniards, wish to put an end to it
by uniting against them all the forces of which they can dispose."
"Very sensibly reasoned; but what can I do in all this?"
"You shall see."
"I ask nothing better."
"The Government wishes, then, to concentrate all its forces to strike a
great blow. Emissaries have already been dispatched in all directions
to inform the generals; but while we attack the enemy in front, it is
important, in order to assure their defeat, to place them between two
fires."
"That is to reason strategically, like Napoleon."
"Now, our general only is in a position to operate on the rear of the
enemy, and to cut off his retreat This general is San Martin, who is
now in Chili, at the head of an army of 10,000 men. Unhappily, it
is excessively difficult to traverse the Spanish lines; but I have
suggested to the council an infallible means of doing so."
"You are full of schemes."
"This means consists in dispatching you to St. Martin. You are a
foreigner; they will not distrust you; you will pass in safety, and you
will remit to the general the orders of which you will be the bearer--"
"Or I shall be arrested and hanged."
"Oh! That is not probable."
"But it is possible. Well, my dear sir, your project is charming."
"Is it not?"
"Yes, but on thorough reflection it does not please me at all, and I
absolutely refuse it. The devil! I do not care to be hanged as a spy
for a cause which is foreign to me, and of which I know nothing at all."
"What you say to me annoys me to the last degree, for I interest myself
very much in you."
"I thank you for it, but I prefer that you should leave me in my
obscurity. I am unambitiously retiring."
"I know it. Unhappily it is absolutely necessary that you charge
yourself with this mission."
"Oh, indeed! It will be difficult for you to convince me of that."
"You are in error, my young friend; on the contrary, it will be very
easy to me."
"I do not believe it."
"In this way: it appears that two Spanish prisoners, arrested some days
ago at the Cabildo, and whose trial is proceeding at this moment, have
charged you in their depositions, asserting that you are perfectly
acquainted with their plans--in a word, that you were one of their
accomplices."
"I!" cried the young man, starting with rage.
"You!" coolly answered the diplomatist "It was then a question of
arresting you; the order was already signed when, not wishing you to be
shot, I intervened in the discussion."
"I thank you for it."
"You know how much I love you. I warmly took up your defence,
until--forced into my last retrenchments, and seeing that your
destruction was resolved upon--I found no other expedient to make
your innocence apparent to all, than to propose you as an emissary to
General San Martin, asserting that you would be happy to give this
pledge of your devotion to the revolution."
"But it is a horrible murder!" cried the young man, with despair; "I am
in a fix!"
"Alas; yes, you see me afflicted at it--hanged by the Spaniards, if
they take you--but they will not take you--or shot by the Buenos
Aireans, if you refuse to serve them as an emissary."
"It is frightful," said the young man, utterly cast down; "never did an
honest man find himself in so cruel an alternative."
"On which do you decide?"
"Have I the choice?"
"Why, look--reflect."
"I accept," said he, expressing a strong wish as to the fate of those
who had thus entrapped him.
"Come, come, calm yourself. The danger is not so great as you suppose.
Your mission, I hope, will terminate well."
"When I dreamed that I had come to America to study art, and to escape
politics, what a fine idea I had then!"
M. Dubois could not help laughing.
"Grumble now; later you will relate your adventures."
"The fact is, that if I go on as now, they will be considerably varied.
It is necessary that I set out immediately, no doubt?"
"No, we are not going on so rapidly as that. You have all the time
necessary to make your preparations. Your journey will be long and
difficult."
"How much time can I have to get ready to leave?"
"I have obtained eight days--ten at most. Will that suffice you?"
"Amply. Once more I thank you."
The countenance of the young man suddenly brightened, and it was with a
smile on his lips that he added--
"And during this time I shall be free to dispose of myself as I like."
"Absolutely."
"Well," pursued he, grasping heartily the hand of M. Dubois, "I do not
know why, but I begin to be of your opinion."
"In what way?" said the diplomatist, surprised at the sudden change
manifested by the young man.
"I believe that all will finish better than I at first thought."
And after having ceremoniously saluted the old man, he left the saloon
and went to his apartments.
M. Dubois followed him a moment with his eyes.
"He meditates some folly," murmured he, shaking his head several times.
"In his own interest I will watch him."
[1] See "The Guide of the Desert."