A FIGHT FOR LIFE.
We have left behind us the _montaño_, with its verdant uplands and waving
forests, its blooming valleys, flower-strewed savannas, and sunny waters,
and are crawling painfully along a ledge, hardly a yard wide, stern gray
rocks all round us, a foaming torrent only faintly visible in the
prevailing gloom a thousand feet below. Our mules, obtained at the last
village in the fertile region, move at the speed of snails, for the path
is slippery and insecure, and one false step would mean death for both the
rider and the ridden,
Presently the gorge widens into a glen, where forlorn flowers struggle
toward the scanty light and stunted trees find a precarious foothold among
the rocks and stones. Soon the ravine narrows again, narrows until it
becomes a mere cleft; the mule-path goes up and down like some mighty
snake, now mounting to a dizzy height, anon descending to the bed of the
thundering torrent. The air is dull and sepulchral, an icy wind blows in
our faces, and though I am warmly clad, and wrapped besides in a thick
_poncho_, I shiver to the bone.
At length we emerge from this valley of the shadow of death, and after
crossing an arid yet not quite treeless plain, begin to climb by many
zigzags an almost precipitous height. The mules suffer terribly, stopping
every few minutes to take breath, and it is with a feeling of intense
relief that, after an ascent of two hours, we find ourselves on the
_cumbre_, or ridge of the mountain.
For the first time since yesterday we have an unobstructed view. I
dismount and look round. Backward stretches an endless expanse of bleak
and stormy-swept billowy mountains; before us looms, in serried phalanx,
the western Cordillera, dazzling white, all save one black-throated
colossus, who vomits skyward thick clouds of ashes and smoke, and down
whose ragged flanks course streams of fiery lava.
After watching this stupendous spectacle for a few minutes we go on, and
shortly reach another and still loftier _quebrada_. Icicles hang from the
rocks, the pools of the streams are frozen; we have reached an altitude as
high as the summit of Mont Blanc, and our distended lips, swollen hands,
and throbbing temples show how great is the rarefaction of the air.
None of us suffer so much from the cold as poor Gahra. His ebon skin has
turned ashen gray, he shivers continually, can hardly speak, and sits on
his mule with difficulty.
The country we are in is uninhabited and the trail we are following known
only to a few Indians. I am the first white man, says Gondocori, by whom
it has been trodden.
We pass the night in a ruined building of cyclopean dimensions, erected no
doubt in the time of the Incas, either for the accommodation of travellers
by whom the road was then frequented or for purposes of defence. But being
both roofless, windowless, and fireless, it makes only a poor lodging. The
icy wind blows through a hundred crevices; my limbs are frozen stiff, and
when morning comes many of us look more dead than alive.
I asked Condocori how the poor girls of San Andrea could possibly have
survived so severe a journey.
"The weaker would have died. But I did not expect this cold. The winter is
beginning unusually early this year. Had we been a few days later we
should not have got through at all, and if it begins to snow it may go ill
with us, even yet. But to-morrow the worst will be over."
The cacique had so far behaved very well, treating me as a friend and an
equal, and doing all he could for my comfort. His men treated me as a
superior. Gondocori said very little about his country, still less about
Queen Mamcuna, whom he also called "Great Mother." To my frequent
questions on these subjects he made always the same answer: "Patience, you
will see."
He did, however, tell me that his people called their country Pachatupec
and themselves Pachatupecs, that the Spaniards had never subdued them or
even penetrated into the fastnesses where they dwelt, and that they spoke
the ancient language of Peru.
Gondocori admitted that his mother was a Christian, and to her he no doubt
owed his notions of religion and the regularity of his features. She had
been carried off as he meant to carry off the seven maidens of the Happy
Valley, for the _misterios_ had a theory that a mixture of white and
Indian blood made the finest children and the boldest warriors. But white
wives being difficult to obtain, _mestiza_ maidens had generally to be
accepted, or rather, taken in their stead.
We rose before daybreak and were in the saddle at dawn. The ground and the
streams are hard frozen, and the path is so slippery that the trembling
mules dare scarcely put one foot before the other, and our progress is
painfully slow. We are in a broad, stone-strewed valley, partly covered
with withered puma-grass, on which a flock of graceful _vicuñas_ are
quietly grazing, as seemingly unconscious of our presence as the great
condors which soar above the snowy peaks that look down on the plain.
As we leave the valley, through a pass no wider than a gateway, the
cacique gives me a word of warning.
"The part we are coming to is the most dangerous of all," he said. "But it
is, fortunately, not long. Two hours will bring us to a sheltered valley.
And now leave everything to your mule. If you feel nervous shut your eyes,
but as you value your life neither tighten your reins nor try to guide
him."
I repeat this caution to Gahra, and ask how he feels.
"Much better, señor; the sunshine has given me new life. I feel equal to
anything."
And now we have to travel once more in single file, for the path runs
along a mountain spur almost as perpendicular as a wall; we are between
two precipices, down which even the boldest cannot look without a shudder.
The incline, moreover, is rapid, and from time to time we come to places
where the ridge is so broken and insecure that we have to dismount, let
our mules go first, and creep after them on our hands.
At the head of the file is an Indian who rides the _madrina_ (a mare) and
acts as guide, next come Gondocori, myself and Gahra, followed by the
other mounted Indians, three or four baggage-mules, and two men on foot.
We have been going thus nearly an hour, when a sudden and portentous
change sets in. Murky clouds gather round the higher summits and shut out
the sun, a thick mist settles down on the ridge, and in a few minutes we
are folded in a gloom hardly less dense than midnight darkness.
"Halt!" shouts the guide.
"What shall we do?" I ask the cacique, whom, though he is but two yards
from me, I cannot see.
"Nothing. We can only wait here till the mist clears away," he shouts in a
muffled voice.
"And how soon may that be?"
"_Quien Sabe?_ Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps hours."
Hours! To stand for hours, even for one hour, immovable in that mist on
that ridge would be death. Since the sun disappeared the cold had become
keener than ever. The blood seems to be freezing in my veins, my beard is
a block of ice, icicles are forming on my eyelids.
If this goes on--a gleam of light! Thank Heaven, the mist is lifting, just
enough to enable me to see Gondocori and the guide. They are quite white.
It is snowing, yet so softly as not to be felt, and as the fog melts the
flakes fall faster.
"Let us go on," says Gondocori. "Better roll down the precipice than be
frozen to death. And if we stop here much longer, and the snow continues,
the pass beyond will be blocked, and then we must die of hunger and cold,
for there is no going back."
So we move on, slowly and noiselessly, amid the fast-falling snow, like a
company of ghosts, every man conscious that his life depends on the
sagacity and sure-footedness of his mule. And it is wonderful how wary the
creatures are. They literally feel their way, never putting one foot
forward until the other is firmly planted. But the snow confuses them.
More than once my mule slips dangerously, and I am debating within myself
whether I should not be safer on foot, when I hear a cry in front.
"What is it?" I ask Gondocori, for I cannot see past him.
"The guide is gone. The _madrina_ slipped, and both have rolled down the
precipice."
"Shall we get off and walk?"
"If you like. You will not be any safer, though you may feel so. The mules
are surer footed than we are, and they have four legs to our two. I shall
keep where I am."
Not caring to show myself less courageous than the _cacique_, I also keep
where I am. We get down the ridge somehow without further mishaps, and
after a while find ourselves in a funnel-shaped gully the passage of
which, in ordinary circumstances, would probably present no difficulty.
But just now it is a veritable battle-field of the winds, which seem to
blow from every point of the compass at once. The snow dashes against our
faces like spray from the ocean, and whirls round us in blasts so fierce
that, at times, we can neither see nor hear. The mules, terrified and
exhausted, put down their heads and stand stock-still. We dismount and try
to drag them after us, but even then they refuse to move.
"If they won't come they must die; and unless we hurry on we shall die,
too. Forward!" cried Gondocori, himself setting the example.
Never did I battle so hard for very life as in that gully. The snow nearly
blinded me, the wind took my breath away, forced me backward, and beat me
to the earth again and again. More than once it seemed as if we should
have to succumb, and then there would come a momentary lull and we would
make another rush and gain a little more ground.
Amid all the hurly-burly, though I cannot think consecutively (all the
strength of my body and every faculty of my mind being absorbed in the
struggle), I have one fixed idea--not to lose sight of Gondocori, and,
except once or twice for a few seconds, I never did. Where he goes I go,
and when, after an unusually severe buffeting, he plunges into a
snow-drift at the end of the ravine, I follow him without hesitation.
Side by side we fought our way through, dashing the snow aside with our
hands, pushing against it with our shoulders, beating it down with our
feet, and after a desperate struggle, which though it appeared endless
could have lasted only a few minutes, the victory was ours; we were free.
I can hardly believe my eyes. The sun is visible, the sky clear and blue,
and below us stretches a grassy slope like a Swiss "alp." Save for the
turmoil of wind behind us and our dripping garments I could believe that I
had just wakened from a bad dream, so startling is the change. The
explanation is, however, sufficiently simple: the area of the _tourmente_
is circumscribed and we have got out of it, the gully merely a passage
between the two mighty ramparts of rock which mark the limits of the
tempest and now protect us from its fury.
"But where are the others?"
Up to that moment I had not given them a thought. While the struggle
lasted thinking had not been possible. After we abandoned the mules I had
eyes only for Gondocori, and never once looked behind me.
"Where are the others?" I asked the _cacique_.
"Smothered in the snow; two minutes more and we also should have been
smothered."
"Let us go back and see. They may still live."
"Impossible! We could not get back if we had ten times the strength and
were ten instead of two. Listen!"
The roar of the storm in the gully is louder than ever; the drift, now
higher than the tallest man, grows even as we look.
Fifteen men buried alive within a few yards of us, yet beyond the
possibility of help! Poor Gahra! If he had loved me less and himself more,
he would still be enjoying the _dolce far niente_ of Happy Valley, instead
of lying there, stark and stiff in his frozen winding-sheet. A word of
encouragement, a helping hand at the last moment, and he might have got
through. I feel as if I had deserted him in his need; my conscience
reproaches me bitterly. And yet--good God! What is that? A black hand in
the snow!
"With a single bound I am there. Gondocori follows, and as I seize one
hand he finds and grasps the other, and we pull out of the drift the
negro's apparently lifeless body.
"He is dead," says the _cacique_.
"I don't think so. Raise him up, and let the sun shine on him."
I take out my pocket-flask and pour a few drops of _aguardiente_ down his
throat. Presently Gahra sighs and opens his eyes, and a few minutes later
is able to stand up and walk about. He can tell very little of what passed
in the gully. He had followed Gondocori and myself, and was not far behind
us. He remembered plunging into the snow-drift and struggling on until he
fell on his face, and then all was a blank. None of the Indians were with
him in the drift; he felt sure they were all behind him, which was likely
enough, as Gahra, though sensitive to cold, was a man of exceptional
bodily strength. It was beyond a doubt that all had perished.
"I left Pachatupec with fifteen braves. I have lost my braves, my mules,
and my baggage, and all I have to show are two men, a pale-face and a
black-face. Not a single maiden. How will Mamcuna take it, I wonder?" said
Gondocari, gloomily. "Let us go on."
"You think she will be very angry?"
"I do."
"Is she very unpleasant when she is angry?"
"She generally makes it very unpleasant for others. Her favorite
punishment for offenders is roasting them before a slow fire."
"And yet you propose to go on?"
"What else can we do? Going back the way we came is out of the question,
equally so is climbing either of those mountain-ranges. If we stay
hereabout we shall starve. We have not a morsel of food, and until we
reach Pachatupec we shall get none."
"And when may that be?"
"By this time to-morrow."
"Well, let us go on, then; though, as between being starved to death and
roasted alive, there is not much to choose. All the same, I should like to
see this wonderful queen of whom you are so much afraid."
"You would be afraid of her, too, and very likely will be before you have
done with her. Nevertheless, you may find favor in her sight, and I have
just bethought me of a scheme which, if you consent to adopt it, may not
only save our lives, but bring you great honor."
"And what is that scheme, Gondocori?"
"I will explain it later. This is no time for talk. We must push on with
all speed or we shall not get to the boats before nightfall."
"Boats! You surely don't mean to say that we are to travel to Pachatupec
by boats. Boats cannot float on a frozen mountain torrent!"
But the cacique, who was already on the march, made no answer.