A heavy fog was clearing from the sea, when from out of the mist rose
the black hull and conning tower of the Cochrane. The senior officers
of the flagship stood grouped on the starboard rail. The wind changed
suddenly to the west, and, as it changed, it rolled up patches of the
fog and revealed the black hull and conning tower of the Enlado. A
heavy cloud of smoke poured from their funnels; decks cleared for
action when they should put into practice the desperate objects of
their existence.
A boat was lowered from the flagship and rowed to the wharf of
Mollendo by sturdy Chileans, while an officer bore a message to the
Prefecto for all noncombatants to leave the city, as bombardment would
begin in an hour.
As the boat was leaving, it was fired upon. Then the ear-splitting
reports which followed showed how the flagship took this breach of the
rules of war. There was the rushing swishing sound, the terrifying
screech of projectiles passing through the air, followed by terrific
explosions and the crash of falling buildings.
In the city, pandemonium reigned. Men and women with blanched faces,
were fleeing to the hills. Others threw themselves upon the ground,
too terror-stricken to move. I heard a voice at my elbow calling in
English. It was the voice of a woman, young and fair. "This way," said
I, and we hurried toward the massive rock from whose summit I had
watched the battle of the Huascar and Amythist two years before.
"We are safe now," I said, as we stood behind the thousands of tons of
granite, "safe as if we were behind the rock of Gibraltar."
"Oh, mother, sister and Mr. Robinson--heaven help them at this hour!"
she exclaimed. A shell struck a stone building and exploded by
impact; fragments screamed like a panther in the air.
The young woman's face was blanched to a death-like pallor, but she
was calm, and, kneeling by my side, she asked God to help us. Aloud
she prayed, a beautiful, impressive prayer, one that must have gone
straight to the throne of heaven and received its answer, for soon the
wind shifted and those belching volcanoes of the sea were curtained by
the fog; the firing ceased.
We hurried to her home amid scenes of desolation and confusion. Her
family was safe and, to my surprise, the Mr. Robinson she had spoken
of was an employe of our railway, who had but lately arrived from the
United States and to whom I had been introduced a few days before.
The bombardment was now over, but the human wolves began to sack the
city. Fire was raging in some quarters and burned far into the night.
It lit the streets with a lurid glare; its red light fell upon
motionless figures in the dust, and scurrying forms, bent beneath
their weight of plunder.
Mr. Robinson was anxious to send his family to Arequipa, and I lent
them all possible assistance, receiving their heartfelt thanks. They
were in a strange land, not even knowing the language of the country.
Hattie, the young woman I had met, was the sister-in-law of Mr.
Robinson. Mrs. Robinson and her mother, an aged woman, were
disappointed with Peru and were glad to get away from the theatre of
war.
I met the Indian soldiers the next day, and the officer commanding was
very indignant at his superior for not allowing him to go to the rocks
at Mollendo and pick off the gunners from the battle ships, with flint
lock rifles.
I was a frequent visitor at the home of the Robinson family in
Arequipa, with whom I had now become well acquainted. It was strange
to my ears to hear them all talk English, for seldom had I heard my
own language spoken by women. The old lady was one of those quiet,
sweet, motherly women. Once introduced to her, it seemed one had
always known her. The whole family was the happiest and most cheerful
I had ever met. Hattie Judson became school teacher to the English and
American children in Arequipa, and her gentle ways soon won the hearts
of all. I enjoyed taking her to the theatre and other places of
amusement, because of her bright conversation and high ideals. From
her I began to catch a glimpse of the nobler things of life, things
that to me, being but poorly educated and in a foreign land, had been
denied. She was a sweet singer and an excellent performer on the
piano, and somehow when she sang I was able to understand the
soul-reaching depths of the melody.
There was company at the house one night, when I heard her sing for
the first time "Coming Thro' the Rye." My soul floated back to Bonnie
Scotland, as when a boy I saw the waving fields of grain, the cows in
the barnyard, and the lassies coming down the path from school; my
mother with the willow basket, bringing in the clothes from the line,
and father smoking his pipe by the well--scenes that nevermore would
return.
In our walks in the shaded dells of the mountains, she often told me
of the United States, the habits and customs of the people--how
ambitions and aspirations were rewarded when accompanied by virtue and
industry. Of the history of Peru she knew far more than I. It was
interesting to hear from her lips the strange stories of the
conquering Pizzaro hosts, whose mailed heels had once trod the ground
we walked, and clanked the knell of a fallen empire.
My school had been the school of adversity. I had grown up with men
who knew or cared little for the finer sensibilities. I felt that her
standards of life were superior to mine. Her loyalty to God and holy
charity toward the humblest soul, bent my spirit to profound respect.
She was one who could see all there was of good in mankind and could
measure the product of one's powers and give them impulse and
direction. In my soul I bowed to the fair graces of her character.
Each day we met I found in her some new wealth of noble thoughts that
created higher ideals in my own untutored mind.
As time went on, fiercer rose the maddening cries of war. I felt the
hot blood surge in my veins and I longed to be at the front, amid the
roar of cannon and the clash of arms.
We were walking in a grove beneath the swift glimmer of the tropical
twilight, when I told her that I felt it my duty to fight for the land
that had been the home of my youth for so many years, and showed her a
letter in which I was offered an officer's commission on the Huascar.
She laid her hand on my arm and said, "There are nobler things in life
than the shedding of the blood of fellow men. The youth of the world
goes out to fight for the empty glory of another's crown. It is not on
the field of carnage that greatest honors are won, but in the nobler,
more peaceful pursuits of life, doing good and becoming leaders of
men and preventing war, that one wins the royal diadem of him who
said, 'peace on earth, good will to men.'"
As she spoke in earnest eloquence, I could have knelt and worshipped
her. Her delicate cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were filled with
tears.
No words of love had yet been spoken, but the Barbarian knew and felt
that he had met his Ingomar.