THE PERILS OF A PERUVIAN ROAD.
It was as yet only an hour or so after daybreak--for the vicuña hunt had
occupied but a very short time and the capture of the condor a still
shorter. Don Pablo was anxious to be gone, as he knew he was not beyond
the reach of pursuit. A pair of the vicuñas were hastily prepared, and
packed upon a llama for use upon their journey. Thus furnished, the
party resumed their route.
The vaquero did not accompany them. He had an office to perform of far
more importance to their welfare and safety. As soon as they were gone
he let loose his four snarling curs, and taking them out to where the
pile of dead vicuñas lay upon the plain, he left them there with
instructions to guard the carcasses from foxes, condors, or whatever
else might wish to make a meal off them. Then mounting, he rode off to
the place where the road leading from Cuzco ascended upon the
table-land, and having tied his horse to a bush, he climbed upon a
projecting rock and sat down. From this point he commanded a view of the
winding road to the distance of miles below him.
No traveller--much less a party of soldiers--could approach without his
seeing them, even many hours before they could get up to where he sat;
and it was for that reason he had stationed himself there. Had Don Pablo
been pursued, the faithful Indian would have galloped after and given
him warning, long before his pursuers could have reached the plain.
He sat until sunset--contenting himself with a few leaves of coca. No
pursuer appeared in sight. He then mounted his horse, and rode back to
his solitary hut.
Let us follow our travellers.
They crossed the table-plain during the day, and rested that night under
the shelter of some overhanging rocks on the other side. They supped
upon part of the vicuñas, and felt more cheerful, as they widened the
distance between themselves and danger. But in the morning they did not
remain longer by their camp than was necessary to get breakfast.
Half-an-hour after sunrise saw them once more on their route.
Their road led through a pass in the mountains. At first it ascended,
and then began to go downward. They had crossed the last ridge of the
Andes, and were now descending the eastern slopes. Another day's
journey, or two at most, would bring them to the borders of that wild
forest, which stretches from the foot-hills of the Andes to the shores
of the Atlantic Ocean--that forest with scarcely a civilised settlement
throughout all its wide extent--where no roads exist--whose only paths
are rivers--whose dark jungles are in places so impenetrable that the
Indian cannot enter them, and even the fierce jaguar, embarrassed by the
thick underwood, has to take to the tree-tops in pursuit of his prey.
Another day's journey or so would bring them to the borders of the
"Montaña"--for such is the name which, by a strange misapplication of
terms, has been given to this primeval wood. Yes, the Montaña was before
them, and although yet distant, it could now and then be seen as the
road wound among the rocks, stretching far towards the sky like a green
and misty ocean.
In that almost boundless region there dwelt none but the aborigines of
the soil--the wild Indians--and these only in sparse and distant bands.
Even the Spaniards in their day of glory had failed to conquer it; and
the Portuguese from the other side were not more successful.
The Spanish colonists, on the Peruvian or western border of this immense
forest, had never been able to penetrate it as colonists or settlers.
Expeditions from time to time had passed along its rivers in search of
the fabled gold country of _Manoa_, whose king each morning gave himself
a coating of gold dust, and was hence called El Dorado (the gilded); but
all these expeditions ended in mortification and defeat. The settlements
never extended beyond the _sierras_, or foot-hill of the Andes, which
stretch only a few days' journey (in some places but a score of leagues)
from the populous cities on the mountain-heights.
Even at this present time, if you travel thirty leagues eastward of the
large town of Cuzco, in the direction taken by Don Pablo, you will pass
the boundaries of civilisation, and enter a country unexplored and
altogether unknown to the people of Cuzco themselves! About the
"Montaña" very little is known in the settlements of the Andes. Fierce
tribes of Indians, the jaguar, the vampire bat, swarms of mosquitoes,
and the hot atmosphere, have kept the settler, as well as the curious
traveller, out of these wooded plains.
Don Pablo had already passed the outskirts of civilisation. Any
settlement he might find beyond would be the hut of some half-wild
Indian. There was no fear of his encountering a white face upon the
unfrequented path he had chosen, though had he gone by some other route
he might have found white settlements extending farther to the eastward.
As it was, the wilderness lay before him, and he would soon enter it.
_And what was he to do in the wilderness?_ He knew not. He had never
reflected on that. He only knew that behind him was a relentless foe
thirsting for his life. To go back was to march to certain death. He had
no thoughts of returning. That would have been madness. His property was
already confiscated--his death decreed by the vengeful Viceroy, whose
soldiers had orders to capture or slay, whenever they should find him.
His only hope, then, was to escape beyond the borders of
civilisation--to hide himself in the great Montaña. Beyond this he had
formed no plan. He had scarcely thought about the future. Forward, then,
for the Montaña!
The road which our travellers followed was nothing more than a narrow
path or "trail" formed by cattle, or by some party of Indians
occasionally passing up from the lower valleys to the mountain-heights.
It lay along the edge of a torrent that leaped and foamed over its rocky
bed. The torrent was no doubt on its way to join the greatest of rivers,
the mighty Amazon--the head-waters of which spring from all parts of the
Andes, draining the slopes of these mountains through more than twenty
degrees of latitude.
Towards evening the little party were beginning to enter among the
mountain spurs, or foot-hills. Here the travelling grew exceedingly
difficult, the path sometimes running up a steep acclivity and then
descending into deep ravines--so deep and dark that the sun's rays
seemed hardly to enter them. The road was what Spanish-Americans term,
"_Cuesta arriba, cuesta abajo_" (up hill, down hill).
In no part of the world are such roads to be met with as among the Andes
Mountains, both in South America and in their Mexican continuation
through the northern division of the continent. This arises from the
peculiar geological structure of these mountains. Vast clefts traverse
them, yawning far into the earth. In South America these are called
_quebradas_. You may stand on the edge of one of them and look sheer
down a precipice two thousand feet! You may fancy a whole mountain
scooped out and carried away, and yet you may have to reach the bottom
of this yawning gulf by a road which seems cut out of the face of the
cliff, or rather has been formed by a freak of Nature--for in these
countries the hand of man has done but little for the roads.
Sometimes the path traverses a ledge so narrow that scarce room is found
for the feet of your trusty mule. Sometimes a hanging bridge has to be
crossed, spanning a horrid chasm, at the bottom of which roars a foaming
torrent--the bridge itself, composed of ropes and brambles, all the
while swinging like a hammock under the tread of the affrighted
traveller!
He who journeys through the tame scenery of European countries can form
but little idea of the wild and dangerous highways of the Andes. Even
the passes of the Alps or Carpathians are safe in comparison. On the
Peruvian road the lives of men and animals are often sacrificed. Mules
slide from the narrow ledges, or break through the frail "soga" bridges,
carrying their riders along with them, whirling through empty air to be
plunged into foaming waters or dashed on sharp rocks below.
These are accidents of continual occurrence; and yet, on account of the
apathy of the Spano-Indian races that inhabit these countries, little is
done for either roads or bridges. Every one is left to take care of
himself, and get over them as he best may. It is only now and then that
positive necessity prompts to a great effort, and then a road is
repaired or a broken bridge patched with new ropes.
But the road that was travelled by Don Pablo had seen no repairs--there
were no bridges. It was, in fact, a mere pathway where the traveller
scrambled over rocks, or plunged into the stream, and forded or swam
across it as he best could. Sometimes it lay along the water's edge,
keeping in the bottom of the ravine; at other places no space was left
by the water, and then the path ascended and ran along some ledge
perhaps for miles, at the end of which it would again descend to the bed
of the stream.