“RUN, RUN!” CRIED TOM; “THE MAN MUST NOT DIE YET!”
It is not often that the lines of young sailor-lads fall in such
pleasant places as did those of Tom Talisker on first going to sea. To
begin with, he had no extra rough work to do, as is too often the case
with apprentices, and even midshipmen, on first going afloat--scrubbing
and scraping all day long, their hands in a bucket of tar one minute,
and in a bucket of “slush” the next.
“Make a man of my lad,” had been about the last words of Uncle Robert to
his friend Captain Herbert; and that honest old tar had proceeded to do
so forthwith, not on the old plan of first breaking a boy’s heart, and
then making a bully of him if he survived it. No, the captain put Tom
into the second mate’s watch, with a request that he should do the best
he could for the lad; and as Holborn himself, as this officer was
called, was an excellent sailor, and a kindly-hearted though somewhat
rough and uncouth individual, he set about putting Tom up to the ropes
without loss of time.
Captain Herbert himself superintended the lad’s book-studies, so on the
whole he was well off; and it is no wonder, therefore, that before he
had been to sea for three years he was able to reef, steer, and do his
duty both on deck and below almost as well as Holborn could.
But all this time the _Caledonia_ had never once been back to England.
For Captain Herbert was quite a wandering Jew of a sailor, and the
reasons for this are not far to seek. First and foremost, he had never
yet given up hopes that he would one day find his lost son, and he
certainly left no stone unturned to bring about so wished-for an event.
Secondly, he was his own master, the barque he sailed being his own
property. And thirdly, it paid him to keep going from country to
country, as long as there was no real necessity for docking the ship.
Not that he valued riches for his own sake, but for the sake of ’Theena
and the son he ne’er again might look upon.
If Tom had felt a man before leaving England, he now almost looked one.
Indeed, in size and strength he was a man quite; for whatever some may
say, the ocean certainly never stunts a youth’s growth.
He was a good sailor, too, taking the adjective “good” in every sense of
the word. Neither his mother’s advice, the second mate’s care, nor
Captain Herbert’s kindness had been thrown away on the boy; and on many
a dark and stormy night he proved that he was just as good as brave.
Another year of voyaging here and there across the face of the great
waters passed away. The _Caledonia_ was lying at San Francisco, and the
captain intimated to the officers his intention of bearing up for home.
They would double the Horn for the last time; then hurrah for merry
England!
There was rejoicing fore and aft at the glad news; for if there is one
word in our language that can convey a thrill of happiness to a sailor’s
heart, that word is “home.” And every seaman on board a ship carries
about with him all over the world affections and ties with the dear ones
he has left behind that nothing but death itself can sever.
“In nine months’ time, my lad,” said Captain Herbert cheerily to Tom,
who was walking the deck with his constant companion the cat at his
heels. “In nine months’ time I hope we’ll be sailing up the Clyde. We
shall touch at Ecuador and at Callao, then steer away south.”
It was not the first time since they had sailed from England that the
_Caledonia_ had touched at Ecuador, so Tom was not surprised at what the
captain now told him; for the grave of his wife was there on that rugged
shore, and it was there, too, he had lost his boy.
“I’m getting old, Tom,” he added. “I cannot do now what I could have
done ten years ago, and I fear I may never be on this coast again.”
Tom could hardly repress a sigh as he looked at him. He certainly was
getting old, and very white in hair and beard; but probably it was his
never-ending sorrow that had aged him quite as much as his years.
The _Caledonia_ lay for many days near the spot where the _Southern
Hope_ was lost. Captain Herbert seemed to find a difficulty in tearing
himself away this time. But when at last the wind began to blow high off
the land, sail was set and away southwards once more went the good ship.
The captain was inexpressibly sorrowful as the vessel left the land, and
Tom felt he could have given all he possessed in the world to dispel the
clouds that hung so heavily over his dear old friend’s heart.
But Tom was too young to let sorrow depress him long, and that night
after he had retired--for it would not be his watch on deck till the
morning--he lay awake for hours thinking of home. How would every one be
on his return, and how would they look?--his dear mother and quiet
kindly father, his sister, his brother, and little ’Theena? But she
would not be so very little now; and he supposed she would have
forgotten him to a great extent, albeit she had written many a dear
affectionate child-letter, every one of which Tom had kept under lock
and key in his ditty-box. His mother’s letters were there also, and a
score of other odds and ends that no one knows the real value of except
a sailor. He did not fall asleep until he heard the middle watch called,
and Holborn came down below, and with him Tom the cat; for this strange
animal evinced quite an affection for the second mate, and frequently
kept watch with him even on stormy nights.
But he jumped now into Tom’s bunk with a little fond cry, nestled down
in his arms, and the two Toms were soon fast asleep.
The _Caledonia_ had cargo to leave at Callao and some to take on board;
so the seamen and officers were busy for a time, almost night and day,
as the captain was anxious now that no time should be lost.
At last, however, the vessel was loaded up, and nothing remained to be
done except to bid some friends good-bye, and make purchase of a few
curios to take to the old folks at home.
Tom and Captain Herbert were on shore, and had dined at one of the best
hotels. Leaving his friend for a time Tom went out for a stroll and to
enjoy the evening breeze, for the day had been very hot and sultry.
He stayed out longer than he had intended, and was making the best of
his way back, when, in a side street through which he was passing by
way of taking a short cut, he came suddenly upon a wildly-excited group
of men and women, who had rushed pell-mell and fighting from the door of
an inn.
Suddenly there was the short, sharp ring of a revolver, then a shrill
scream, and next moment the crowd dispersed, running in all directions.
Tom hastened up to where by the dim light of a hanging lamp he could see
a man supporting himself on his elbow, groaning and in agony.
“Are you much hurt?” asked Tom, bending over him.
“I’m--dying--O! I’m dying,” was the man’s reply.
In the arms of the landlord of the inn and a single watchman he was
borne inside and laid on the floor of a badly-lighted room, and soon a
medical man entered. The wounded man, a dark evil-countenanced
foreigner, lay so still and white one might have taken him for dead.
“His hours are numbered,” said the surgeon at last. “Send for a priest.”
The doomed wretch opened his eyes now.
“Yes, yes,” he gasped, “a priest. I have that on my mind I dare not die
with. Boy,” he continued, looking bewilderingly at Tom, “did I see you
with Herbert?”
“Captain Herbert,” replied Tom, “commands my ship.”
“Kneel down beside me then,” continued the man. “Heaven sent you. I may
yet be forgiven. Boy, have you heard him speak of the _Southern Hope_
and of his steward Roderigo?”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times. Are you that villain?”
“I am that villain.”
The man had fainted again.
“Quick, quick,” cried Tom, addressing the landlord. “Bring brandy. Run,
run. He must not die yet.”
“Who is to pay me for it?” answered the surly fellow. “I’ve had enough
trouble for one night.”
Tom thrust money into his hand, and some poisonously-smelling spirit was
soon produced.
After a little had trickled over the throat of the dying man he once
more looked up.
“Speak slowly now,” said Tom, quietly supporting Roderigo with one arm.
“Tell me more about the _Southern Hope_ and the boy Bernard. O, tell me
about him, and Captain Herbert will forgive you for anything,
everything.”
“Yes, yes. The _Southern Hope_. We mutinied--we expected treasure--gold
and precious stones--we found but insects, beetles, and stuffed birds.
We were wild and wanted revenge. I would have fired the ship--but my
comrades would not hear of it. The best revenge, they said, would
be--was to--but where am I? Who are you?”
“Here, drink a little more. Now, tell me of the boy Bernard. You
remember. Yes, you do, I see it in your eye. Speak, if you hope for
forgiveness.”
“Yes, I will confess all. But why comes not the priest? The boy Bernard
we took away--”
“Does he live, tell me that?”
“He lives.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Tom. “O that Captain Herbert were but
here himself! Tell me now, Roderigo, as you hope to be forgiven, where
is the son of Captain Herbert? Where did you take him?”
“I--I know not--where he was taken--far into the interior.” The dying
man was sinking fast. “I saw a trader lately--Bernard was with the
Jivaros” (pronounced Heevaros). “He was well. Pray for me--I am dying.”
What could Tom do but kneel down there beside the poor wretch and pray
for his forgiveness through the merits of our Saviour. It was the first
prayer he had ever presented before the throne of grace otherwise than
in the privacy of his own cabin or in his own thoughts, and he was
surprised at his own earnestness.
“I am forgiven--I feel I am.”
These were the last words of the dying Roderigo. Just one last low
sobbing sigh and all was over. Tom wept a little now as he stretched the
unhappy man’s arms by his side, and closed his eyelids. Then he quietly
took his leave.
Captain Herbert’s joy at the news Tom brought him hardly knew any
bounds. There was no going on board for either of them that night; and
they sat till far into the small hours of the morning, talking of the
past and laying schemes for the future. Or rather considering one
particular scheme, which was of Tom’s proposing, and ultimately acceded
to by Captain Herbert.
It was, in short, a plan of rescuing the boy, or rather young man,
Bernard, from the tribe of warlike Indians in which he was a prisoner.
“Fain would I go with you,” said the captain, “for I fear the danger
will be great; but I am feeble and far from well. I should but hinder
you and clog your every movement.”
“Captain Herbert,” said Tom, “I am young if you are getting old. I am
healthy and strong and I am not afraid of anything. I shall go as a
hunter--go as my dear uncle went, see all he saw, do all and perhaps
more than he did, and return, I doubt not, in company with your son
Bernard.”
“May Heaven be with you then,” said the captain.
“I am not superstitious, dear sir,” continued Tom; “but the strange
dream I had has never ceased to haunt me, and if I am instrumental in
bringing back poor Bernard to his father and sister I shall be happy as
long as I live.”
So it was agreed between them that all preparations should be at once
made for Tom’s expedition into the wilds of the strange land where
Bernard was supposed to live, and in a few days after the burial of
Roderigo, whom the captain had easily identified as his old steward, the
_Caledonia’s_ head was once more turned back towards the shores of
Ecuador.
* * * * *
What a sad and eventful history is that of this lovely land of Ecuador!
There is romance, too, in every page of it; but a romance, alas! that is
all throughout stained with blood. Not the blood spilled in battle and
with honour, not the blood of patriots and heroes, but blood spilled in
civil wars, in petty strife, and the blood of murder and massacre.
If the purple mists of oblivion could be dispelled and we had a peep of
the far bygone past, we should first find this country peopled by a race
called Quitus; subjects of a king, but altogether lawless and
independent, for the simple reason that communications betwixt tribe and
tribe were few and far between, as in many cases were the tribes
themselves. If they kept touch with each other it was through
traditions, or through the more tangible instrumentality of knife or
spear or poisoned dart.
Thus they may have lived and died for thousands of years, then we read
of the first invasion. For some peoples dwelling far to the south had
advanced further in civilization than the poor Quitus, with the
inevitable result--a desire for conquest, bloodshed, and rapine.
They were called Karans, and made their warlike descent upon the coast
in armed boats or rafts. These Karans went to work in the usual way with
invaders of the past--they slew the men and old of both sexes, enslaving
the women and the girls and boys. Having once conquered the country they
kept it, just as we Britons would have done, only we use the more
refined expression “annexation.”
These Karans had a fine time of it after this. The country was such a
wild and glorious one; no need to work or do anything, except hunt and
fish and enjoy life. They called their kings “Shyris,” though there
certainly was very little shyness about any of them. As these kings
waxed richer and richer they grew more and more independent, not to say
insolent, till their fame attracted the attention and inflamed the
ambition of a great Inca called Tupac Yupanqui. Then war began in
earnest, and lasted till the death of this King Tupac. There was a short
lull after that; but, the days of his mourning being over, the dead
monarch’s son Huayna-Kapak, a still more daring warrior than his father,
continued the terrible warfare, and at length in a great battle
conquered the Karans and slew their last Shyri. Well, the Karans were
conquered; but they did not know it, for they simply made the dear
king’s daughter their queen and continued to fight under her.
Huayna-Kapak found he had all his work cut out, and that it would take
him an age to kill all these warlike Karans, who were here, there, and
everywhere at the same time. So for a time he was nonplussed. But lo! to
his tent one day came an emissary from the enemy. He had not come to sue
for peace; very far from it--only for a truce during the flood season,
and that the dead might be properly interred on both sides.
Perhaps Kapak was a Scotchman, anyhow he was very canny. It would have
been easy enough for him to have deprived this emissary of his head, but
it would not have been diplomacy. Instead of taking his head or even his
scalp he treated him very kindly and asked him as many questions as
possible, the emissary in return telling him as many lies as he could
think of. But there was one thing on which this Karan was extremely
enthusiastic, namely, the beauty and accomplishments of the young queen.
She was more lovely and radiant than the most beautiful bird in the
forest, and she was as brave as a jaguar. Well, the canny Inca went to
bed and dreamt about all the Karan had told him, and he was not any
better when he came to breakfast next morning--he was in love. Why
should we fight against so charming a queen? It would be easier to
conquer the Karans by marrying her. So an interview was arranged and a
marriage next, and this bold but love-smitten Inca never went
back--another proof, I think, that he must have been of Scotch
descent--but dwelt in Quitu or Ecuador and ruled over his people for
forty years.
After his death the kingdom became divided into two, for the king left
one part of it, namely Cusco, to Huascar, half-brother to Atchualpa, the
king’s son by his Shyri queen, the latter falling heir to Quitu proper.
Huascar was a quarrelsome fellow, and finally he declared war on his
half-brother, but was defeated and thrown into prison. Poor Atchualpa
some time after this fell a victim to treachery, his retainers were
brutally massacred and he himself strangled.
After this the government of Ecuador became pretty much of a muddle. A
chief called Rumiñagui made himself King of Quitu first, but the
Spaniards determined to put him down. He was beaten in battle after
battle, and on getting nearer to the capital this reckless and cruel
chief massacred the “virgins of the sun” and burned the city. He found
time to remove even all his gold and treasure, which he took with him to
the wilds, burying them in a mountain, which still bears his own name.
Some day a portion of this treasure, which I am told is still concealed
at the base of this mighty hill, may be discovered by some adventurous
boy who leaves this country with twopence-halfpenny in his pocket, and
who will, after killing wild beasts innumerable, return to England and
live happy ever after.
The Spaniards now came into possession of the country, and after a deal
of additional wars and a great deal of massacre and bloodshed, Ecuador
became a republic. This happened about sixty years ago, and ever since
it has been as much a prey to rebellions and revolutions as to
earthquakes, being probably less happy and contented even now than when
it was governed by the easy going kings of the Shyri dynasty. The
greater portion of the country east of the Andes is clad in dense
forests, and inhabited by wild beasts and still wilder men. And it was
into this wilderness our hero Tom was now about to penetrate.