THE REFUGEES.
Upon a bright and lovely evening, many years ago, a party of travellers
might have been seen climbing up that Cordillera of the Andes that lies
to the eastward of the ancient city of Cuzco. It was a small and
somewhat singular party of travellers; in fact, a travelling
family,--father, mother, children, and one attendant. We shall say a
word of each of them separately.
The chief of the party was a tall and handsome man, of nearly forty
years of age. His countenance bespoke him of Spanish race, and so he
was. He was not a Spaniard, however, but a Spanish-American, or
"Creole," for so Spaniards born in America are called to distinguish
them from the natives of Old Spain.
Remember--Creoles are _not_ people with negro or African blood in their
veins. There is a misconception on this head in England, and elsewhere.
The African races of America are either negroes, mulattoes, quadroons,
quinteroons, or mestizoes; but the "Creoles" are of European blood,
though born in America. Remember this. Don Pablo Romero--for that was
the name of our traveller--was a Creole, a native of Cuzco, which, as
you know, was the ancient capital of the Incas of Peru.
Don Pablo, as already stated, was nearly forty years of age. Perhaps he
looked older. His life had not been spent in idleness. Much study,
combined with a good deal of suffering and care, had made many of those
lines that rob the face of its youthful appearance. Still, although his
look was serious, and just then sad, his eye was occasionally seen to
brighten, and his light elastic step showed that he was full of vigour
and manhood. He had a moustache, very full and black, but his whiskers
were clean shaven, and his hair cut short, after the fashion of most
people in Spanish America.
He wore velvet pantaloons, trimmed at the bottoms with black stamped
leather, and upon his feet were strong boots of a reddish yellow
colour--that is, the natural colour of the tanned hide before it has
been stained. A dark jacket, closely buttoned, covered the upper-part of
his body, and a scarlet silk sash encircled his waist, the long fringed
ends hanging down over the left hip. In this sash were stuck a Spanish
knife and a pair of pistols, richly ornamented with silver mountings.
But all these things were concealed from the view by a capacious poncho,
which is a garment that in South America serves as a cloak by day and a
blanket by night. It is nearly of the size and shape of an ordinary
blanket, with a slit in the centre, through which the head is passed,
leaving the ends to hang down. Instead of being of uniform colour,
several bright colours are usually woven into the poncho, forming a
variety of patterns. In Mexico a very similar garment--the serapé--is
almost universally worn. The poncho of Don Pablo was a costly one, woven
by hand, and out of the finest wool of the vicuña, for that is the
native country of this useful and curious animal.
Such a poncho would cost 20_l._, and would not only keep out cold, but
would turn rain like a "macintosh." Don Pablo's hat was also curious and
costly. It was one of those known as "Panama," or "Guayaquil,"--hats so
called because they are manufactured by Indian tribes who dwell upon the
Pacific coast, and are made out of a rare sea-grass, which is found near
the above-mentioned places. A good Guayaquil hat will cost 20_l._; and
although, with its broad curling brim and low crown, it looks not much
better than Leghorn or even fine straw, yet it is far superior to
either, both as a protection against rain, or, what is of more
importance in southern countries, against a hot tropical sun. The best
of them will wear half a life-time. Don Pablo's "sombrero" was one of
the very best and costliest; and this, combined with the style of his
other habiliments, betokened that the wearer was one of the "ricos," or
high class of his country.
The costume of his wife, who was a dark and very beautiful Spanish
woman, would have strengthened this idea. She wore a dress of black silk
with velvet bodice and sleeves, tastefully embroidered. A mantilla of
dark cloth covered her shoulders, and on her head was a low
broad-brimmed hat, similar to those usually worn by men, for a bonnet is
a thing unknown to the ladies of Spanish America. A single glance at the
Doña Isidora would have satisfied any one that she was a lady of rank
and refinement.
There were two children, upon which, from time to time, she gazed
tenderly. They were her only ones. They were a boy and girl, nearly of
equal size and age. The boy was the elder, perhaps thirteen or more, a
handsome lad, with swarth face, coal-black eyes, and curly full-flowing
dark hair. The girl, too, who would be about twelve, was dark--that is
to say, brunette in complexion. Her eyes were large, round, and dreamy,
with long lashes that kept the sun from shining into them, and thus
deepened their expression.
Perhaps there are no children in the world so beautiful as those of the
Spanish race. There is a smoothness of skin, a richness in colour, and a
noble "hidalgo" expression in their round black eyes that is rare in
other countries. Spanish women retain this expression to a good age. The
men lose it earlier, because, as I believe, they are oftener of
corrupted morals and habits; and these, long exercised, certainly stamp
their lines upon the face. Those which are mean, and low, and vicious,
produce a similar character of countenance, while those which are high,
and holy, and virtuous, give it an aspect of beauty and nobility.
Of all beautiful Spanish children none could have been more beautiful
than our two little Creole Spaniards, Leon and Leona--for such were the
names of the brother and sister.
There yet remains one to be described, ere we complete the account of
our travelling party. This one was a grown and tall man, quite as tall
as Don Pablo himself, but thinner and more angular in his outlines. His
coppery colour, his long straight black hair, his dark and wild piercing
eye, with his somewhat odd attire, told you at once he was of a
different race from any of the others. He was an Indian--a South
American Indian; and although a descendant from the noble race of the
Peruvian Incas, he was acting in the capacity of a servant or attendant
to Don Pablo and his family.
There was a familiarity, however, between the old Indian--for he was an
old man--and Don Pablo, that bespoke the existence of some tie of a
stronger nature than that which exists between master and servant. And
such there was in reality. This Indian had been one of the patriots who
had rallied around Tupac Amaru in his revolution against the Spaniards.
He had been proscribed, captured, and sentenced to death. He would have
been executed, but for the interference of Don Pablo, who had saved his
life. Since then Guapo--such was the Indian's name--had remained not
only the retainer, but the firm and faithful friend, of his benefactor.
Guapo's feet were sandalled. His legs were naked up to the knees,
showing many an old scar received from the cactus plants and the thorny
bushes of acacia, so common in the mountain-valleys of Peru. A
tunic-like skirt of woollen cloth,--that home-made sort called
"bayeta,"--was fastened around his waist, and reached down to the knees;
but the upper part of his body was quite bare, and you could see the
naked breast and arms, corded with strong muscles, and covered with a
skin of a dark copper colour. The upper part of his body was naked only
when the sun was hot. At other times Guapo wore a species of poncho like
his master, but that of the Indian was of common stuff--woven out of the
coarse wool of the llama. His head was bare.
[Illustration: THE FLIGHT OF THE REFUGEES.]
Guapo's features were thin, sharp, and intelligent. His eye was keen and
piercing; and the gait of the old man, as he strode along the rocky
path, told that it would be many years before he would show any signs of
feebleness or tottering.
There were four animals that carried our travellers and their effects.
One was a horse ridden by the boy Leon. The second was a saddle mule, on
which rode Doña Isidora and Leona. The other two animals were not
mounted. They were beasts of burden, with "yerguas," or pack-saddles,
upon which were carried the few articles that belonged to the
travellers. They were the camels of Peru--the far-famed llamas. Don
Pablo, with his faithful retainer, travelled afoot.
You will wonder that one apparently so rich, and on so distant a
journey, was not provided with animals enough to carry his whole party.
Another horse at least, or a mule, might have been expected in the
cavalcade. It would not have been strange had Guapo only walked--as he
was the arriero, or driver, of the llamas--but to see Don Pablo afoot
and evidently tired, with neither horse nor mule to ride upon, was
something that required explanation. There was another fact that
required explanation. The countenance of Don Pablo wore an anxious
expression, as if some danger impended; so did that of the lady, and the
children were silent, with their little hearts full of fear. They knew
not _what_ danger, but they knew that their father and mother were in
trouble.
The Indian, too, had a serious look; and at each angle of the mountain
road he and Don Pablo would turn around, and with anxious eyes gaze back
in the direction that led towards Cuzco. As yet they could distinguish
the spires of the distant city, and the Catholic crosses, as they
glistened under the evening sunbeam. Why did they look back with fear
and distrust? Why? _Because Don Pablo was in flight, and feared
pursuers!_ What? Had he committed some great crime? No. On the contrary,
he was the _victim of a noble virtue_--the virtue of patriotism! For
that had he been condemned, and was now in flight--flying to save not
only his liberty but his life! yes, _his life;_ for had the sentinels on
those distant towers but recognised him, he would soon have been
followed and dragged back to an ignominious death.
Young reader, I am writing of things that occurred before the
Spanish-American colonies became free from the rule of Old Spain. You
will remember that these countries were then governed by viceroys, who
represented the King of Spain, but who in reality were quite as absolute
as that monarch himself. The great viceroys of Mexico and Peru held
court in grand state, and lived in the midst of barbaric pomp and
luxury. The power of life and death was in their hands, and in many
instances they used it in the most unjust and arbitrary manner. They
were themselves, of course, natives of Old Spain--often the pampered
favourites of that corrupt court.
All the officials by which they were surrounded and served were, like
themselves, natives of Spain, or "Gachupinos," (as the Creoles used to
call them,) while the Creoles--no matter how rich, or learned, or
accomplished in any way--were excluded from every office of honour and
profit. They were treated by the Gachupinos with contempt and insult.
Hence for long, long years before the great revolutions of Spanish
America, a strong feeling of dislike existed between Creole Spaniards
and Spaniards of Old Spain; and this feeling was quite independent of
that which either had towards the Indians--the aborigines of America.
This feeling brought about the revolution, which broke out in all the
countries of Spanish America (including Mexico) and which, after fifteen
years of cruel and sanguinary fighting, led to the independence of these
countries.
Some people will tell you that they gained nothing by this independence,
as since that time so much war and anarchy have marked their history.
There is scarcely any subject upon which mankind thinks more
superficially, and judges more wrongly, than upon this very one. It is a
mistake to suppose that a people enjoys either peace or prosperity,
simply because it is quiet. There is quiet in Russia, but to its
millions of serfs war continuous and eternal; and the same may be said
of many other countries as well as Russia.
To the poor slave, or even to the over-taxed subject, peace is no peace,
but a constant and systematised struggle, often more pernicious in its
effects than even the anarchy of open war. A war of this kind numbers
its slain by millions, for the victims of famine are victims of
_political crime_ on the part of a nation's rulers. I have no time now
to talk of these things. Perhaps, boy reader, you and I may meet on this
ground again, and at no very distant period.
Well, it was not in the general rising that Don Pablo had been
compromised, but previous to that. The influence of the European
Revolution of 1798 was felt even in distant Spanish America, and several
ebullitions occurred in different parts of that country at the same
time. They were premature; they were crushed. Those who had taken part
in them were hunted to the death. Death! death! was the war-cry of the
Spanish hirelings, and bitterly did they execute their vengeance on all
who were compromised. Don Pablo would have been a victim among others,
had he not had timely warning and escaped; but as it was, all his
property was taken by confiscation, and became the plunder of the
rapacious tyrant.
We are introduced to him just at the period of his escape. By the aid of
the faithful Guapo he had hastily collected a few things, and with his
wife and family fled in the night. Hence the incompleteness of his
travelling equipage. He had taken one of the most unfrequented paths--a
mere bridle-road--that led from Cuzco eastward over the Cordillera. His
intent was to gain the eastern slope of the Andes mountains, where he
might conceal himself for a time in the uninhabited woods of the Great
_Montaña_, and towards this point was he journeying. By a _ruse_ he had
succeeded in putting the soldiers of the despot on a false track; but it
was not certain that they might not yet fall into the true one. No
wonder then, when he gazed back towards Cuzco, that his look was one of
apprehension and anxiety.