THE TALE BEGINS.
The morning after the battle of Salamanca (through which I passed
unscathed) the regiment of dragoons to which I belonged (forming part of
Anson's brigade), together with Bock's Germans, was ordered to follow on
the traces of the flying French, who had retired across the River Tormes.
Though we started at daylight, we did not come up with their rear-guard
until noon. It consisted of a strong force of horse and foot, and made a
stand near La Serna; but the cavalry, who had received a severe lesson on
the previous day, bolted before we could cross swords with them. The
infantry, however, remained firm, and forming square, faced us like men.
The order was then given to charge; and when the two brigades broke into a
gallop and thundered down the slope, they raised so thick a cloud of dust
that all we could see of the enemy was the glitter of their bayonets and
the flash of their musket-fire. Saddles were emptied both to the right and
left of me, and one of the riderless horses, maddened by a wound in the
head, dashed wildly forward, and leaping among the bayonets and lashing
out furiously with his hind-legs, opened a way into the square. I was the
first man through the gap, and engaged the French colonel in a
hand-to-hand combat. At the very moment just as I gave him the point in
his throat he cut open my shoulder, my horse, mortally hurt by a bayonet
thrust, fell, half rolling over me and crushing my leg.
As I lay on the ground, faint with the loss of blood and unable to rise,
some of our fellows rode over me, and being hit on the head by one of
their horses, I lost consciousness. When I came to myself the skirmish was
over, nearly the whole of the French rear-guard had been taken prisoners
or cut to pieces, and a surgeon was dressing my wounds. This done, I was
removed in an ambulance to Salamanca.
The historic old city, with its steep, narrow streets, numerous convents,
and famous university, had been well-nigh ruined by the French, who had
pulled down half the convents and nearly all the colleges, and used the
stones for the building of forts, which, a few weeks previously,
Wellington had bombarded with red-hot shot.
The hospitals being crowded with sick and wounded, I was billeted in the
house of a certain Señor Don Alberto Zamorra, which (probably owing to the
fact of its having been the quarters of a French colonel) had not taken
much harm, either during the French occupation of the town or the
subsequent siege of the forts.
Don Alberto gave me a hearty, albeit a dignified welcome, and being a
Spanish gentleman of the old school, he naturally placed his house, and
all that it contained, at my disposal. I did not, of course, take this
assurance literally, and had I not been on the right side, I should
doubtless have met with a very different reception. All the same, he made
a very agreeable host, and before I had been his guest many days we became
fast friends.
Don Zamorra was old, nearly as old as I am now; and as I speedily
discovered, he had passed the greater part of his life in Spanish America,
where he had held high office under the crown. He could hardly talk about
anything else, in fact, and once he began to discourse about his former
greatness and the marvels of the Indies (as South and Central America were
then sometimes called) he never knew when to stop. He had crossed the
Andes and seen the Amazon, sailed down the Orinoco and visited the mines
of Potosi and Guanajuata, beheld the fiery summit of Cotopaxi, and peeped
down the smoky crater of Acatenango. He told of fights with Indians and
wild animals, of being lost in the forest, and of perilous expeditions in
search of gold and precious stones. When Zamorra spoke of gold his whole
attitude changed, the fires of his youth blazed up afresh, his face glowed
with excitement, and his eyes sparkled with greed. At these times I saw in
him a true type of the old Spanish Conquestadores, who would baptize a
cacique to save him from hell one day, and kill him and loot his treasure
the next.
Don Alberto had, moreover, a firm belief in the existence of the fabled El
Dorado, and of the city of Manoa, with its resplendent house of the sun,
its hoards of silver and gold, and its gilded king. Thousands of
adventurers had gone forth in search of these wonders, and thousands had
perished in the attempt to find them. Señor Zamorra had sought El Dorado
on the banks of the Orinoco and the Rio Negro; others, near the source of
the Rio Grande and the Marañon; others, again, among the volcanoes of
Salvador and the canons of the Cordilleras. Zamorra believed that it lay
either in the wilds of Guiana, or the unexplored confines of Peru and the
Brazils.
He had heard of and believed even greater wonders--of a stream on the
Pacific coast of Mexico, whose pebbles were silver, and whose sand was
gold; of a volcano in the Peruvian Cordillera, whose crater was lined with
the noblest of metals, and which once in every hundred years ejected, for
days together, diamonds, and rubies, and dust of gold.
"If that volcano could only be found," said the don, with a convulsive
clutching of his bony fingers, and a greedy glare in his aged eyes. "If
that volcano could only be found! Why, it must be made of gold, and
covered with precious stones! The man who found it would be the richest in
all the world--richer than all the people in the world put together!"
"Did you ever see it, Don Alberto?" I asked.
"Did I ever see it?" he cried, uplifting his withered hands. "If I had
seen that volcano you would never have seen me, but you would have heard
of me. I had it from an Indio whose father once saw it with his own eyes;
but I was too old, too old"--sighing--"to go on the quest. To undertake
such an enterprise a man should be in the prime of life and go alone. A
single companion, even though he were your own brother, might be fatal;
for what virtue could be proof against so great a temptation--millions of
diamonds and a mountain of gold?"
All this roused my curiosity and fired my imagination--not that I believed
it all, for Zamorra was evidently a visionary with a fixed idea, and as
touching his craze, credulous as a child; but in those days South America
had been very little written about and not half explored; for me it had
all the charm and fascination of the unknown--a land of romance and
adventure, abounding in grand scenery, peopled by strange races, and
containing the mightiest rivers, the greatest forests, and highest
mountains in the world.
When my host dismounted from his hobby he was an intelligent talker, and
told me much that was interesting about Mexico, Peru, Guatemala, and the
Spanish Main. He had several books on the subject which I greedily
devoured. The expedition of Piedro de Ursua and Lope de Aguirre in search
of El Dorado and Omagua; "History of the Conquest of Mexico," by Don
Antonio de Solis; Piedrolieta's "General History of the Conquest of the
New Kingdom of Grenada," and others; and before we parted I had resolved
that, so soon as the war was over, I would make a voyage to the land of
the setting sun, and see for myself the wonders of which I had heard.
"You are right," said Señor Zamorra, when I told him of my intention.
"America is the country of the future. Ah, if I were only fifty years
younger! You will, of course, visit Venezuela; and if you visit Venezuela
you are sure to go to Caracas. I will give you a letter of introduction to
a friend of mine there. He is a man in authority, and may be of use to
you. I should much like you to see him and greet him on my behalf."
I thanked my host, and promised to see his friend and present the letter.
It was addressed to Don Simon de Ulloa. Little did I think how much
trouble that letter would give me, and how near it would come to being my
death-warrant.
Zamorra then besought me, with tears in his eyes, to go in search of the
Golden Volcano.
"If you could give me a more definite idea of its whereabouts I might
possibly make the attempt," I answered, with intentional vagueness; for
though I no more believed in the objective existence of the Golden Volcano
than in Aladdin's lamp, I did not wish to hurt the old man's feelings by
an avowal of my skepticism.
"Ah, my dear sir," he said, with a gesture of despair, "if I knew the
whereabouts of the Golden Volcano, I should go thither myself, old as I
am. I should have gone long ago, and returned with a hoard of wealth that
would make me the master of Europe--wealth that would buy kingdoms. I can
tell you no more than that it is somewhere in the region of the Peruvian
Andes. It may be that by cautious inquiry you may light on an Indio who
will lead you to the very spot. It is worth the attempt, and if by the
help of St. Peter and the Holy Virgin you succeed, and I am still alive,
send me out of your abundance a few arrobas (twenty-five pounds) of gold
and a handful of diamonds. It is all I ask."
It was all he asked.
"When I find that volcano, Don Alberto," I said, "not a mere handful of
diamonds, but a bucketful."
This was almost our last talk, for the very same day news was brought that
Lord Wellington, having been forced to raise the siege of Burgos, was
retreating toward the Portuguese frontier, and that Salamanca would almost
inevitably be recaptured by the French. Orders were given for the removal
of the wounded to the Coa, where the army was to take up its winter
quarters, and Zamorra and I had to part. We parted with mutual expressions
of good-will, and in the hope, destined never to be realized, that we
might soon meet again. I had seen Don Alberto for the last time.
A few weeks later I was sufficiently recovered from my hurts to use my
bridle-arm, and before the opening of the next campaign I was fit for the
field and eager for the fray. It was the campaign of Vittoria, one of the
most brilliant episodes in the military history of England. Even now my
heart beats faster and the blood tingles in my veins when I think of that
time, so full of excitement, adventure, and glory--the forcing of the
Pyrenees, the invasion of France, the battles of Bayonne, Orthes, and
Toulouse, and the march to Paris.
But as I am not relating a history of the war, I shall mention only one
incident in which I was concerned at this period--an incident that brought
me in contact with a man who was destined to exercise a fateful influence
on my career.
It occurred after the battle of Vittoria. The French were making for the
Pyrenees, laden with the loot of a kingdom and encumbered with a motley
crowd of non-combatants--the wives and families of French officers, fair
señoritas flying with their lovers, and traitorous Spaniards, who, by
taking sides with the invaders, had exposed themselves to the vengeance of
the patriots. So overwhelming was the defeat of the French, that they were
forced to abandon nearly the whole of their plunder and the greater part
of their baggage, and leave the fugitives and camp-followers to their
fate.
Never was witnessed so strange a sight as the valley of Vittoria presented
at the close of that eventful day. The broken remains of the French army
hurrying toward the Pamplona road, eighty pieces of artillery, served with
frantic haste, covering their retreat; thousands of wagons and carriages
jammed together and unable to move; the red-coated infantry of England,
marching steadily across the plain; the boom of the cannon, the rattle of
musketry, the scream of women as the bullets whistled through the air and
shells burst over their heads--all this made up a scene, dramatic and
picturesque, it is true, yet full of dire confusion and Dantesque horror;
for death had reaped a rich harvest, and thousands of wounded lay writhing
on the blood-stained field.
Owing to the bursting of packages, the overturning of wagons, and the
havoc wrought by shot and shell, valuable effects, coin, gems, gold and
silver candlesticks and vessels, priceless paintings, the spoil of Spanish
churches and convents, were strewed over the ground. There was no need to
plunder; our men picked up money as they matched, and it was computed that
a sum equal to a million sterling found its way into their knapsacks and
pockets.
Our Spanish allies, officers as well as privates, were less scrupulous.
They robbed like highwaymen, and protested that they were only taking
their own.
While riding toward Vittoria to execute an order of the colonel's, I
passed a carriage which a moment or two previously had been overtaken by
several of Longa's dragoons, with the evident intention of overhauling it.
In the carriage were two ladies, one young and pretty the other
good-looking and mature; and, as I judged from their appearance, both
being well dressed, the daughter and wife of a French officer of rank.
They appealed to me for help.
"You are an English officer," said the elder in French; "all the world
knows that your nation is as chivalrous as it is brave. Protect us, I pray
you, from these ruffians."
I bowed, and turning to the Spaniards, one of whom was an officer, spoke
them fair; for my business was pressing, and I had no wish to be mixed up
in a quarrel.
"Caballeros," I said, "we do not make war on women. You will let these
ladies go."
"_Carambo!_ We shall do nothing of the sort," returned the officer,
insolently. "These ladies are our prisoners, and their carriage and all it
contains our prize."
"I beg your pardon, Señor Capitan, but you are, perhaps not aware that
Lord Wellington has given strict orders that private property is to be
respected; and no true caballero molests women."
"_Hijo de Dios!_ Dare you say that I am no true caballero? Begone this
instant, or--"
The Spaniard drew his sword; I drew mine; his men began to look to the
priming of their pistols, and had General Anson not chanced to come by
just in the nick of time, it might have gone ill with me. On learning what
had happened, he said I had acted very properly and told the Spaniards
that if they did not promptly depart he would hand them over to the
provost-marshal.
"We shall meet again, I hope, you and I," said the officer, defiantly, as
he gathered up his reins.
"So do I, if only that I may have an opportunity of chastising you for
your insolence," was my equally defiant answer.
"A thousand thanks, monsieur! You have done me and my daughter a great
service," said the elder of the ladies. "Do me the pleasure to accept this
ring as a slight souvenir of our gratitude, and I trust that in happier
times we may meet again."
I accepted the souvenir without looking at it; reciprocated the wish in my
best French, made my best bow, and rode off on my errand. By the same act
I had made one enemy and two friends; therefore, as I thought, the balance
was in my favor. But I was wrong, for a wider experience of the world than
I then possessed has taught me that it is better to miss making a hundred
ordinary friends than to make one inveterate enemy.