A JOURNEY THAT SEEMS LIKE A DREAM.
It was towards sunset on the day we had left Rosario, and we had made what
our guard called a grand run, though to us it was a somewhat tedious one.
Moncrieff had tucked his mother up in the plaid, and she had gone off to
sleep on the seat 'as gentle as "ewe lammie,"' according to her son. My
aunt and the young bride were quietly talking together, and I myself was
in that delightful condition called "twixt sleeping and waking,' when
suddenly Dugald, who had been watching everything from the window, cried,
'Oh, Donald, look here. What a lovely changing cloud!'
Had Moncrieff not been busy just then--very earnestly busy
indeed--discussing the merits of some sample packets of seeds with one of
his new men, he might have come at once and explained the mystery.
It was indeed a lovely cloud, and it lay low on the north-western horizon.
But we had never before seen so strange a cloud, for not only did it
increase in length and breadth more rapidly than do most clouds, but it
caught the sun's parting rays in quite a marvellous manner. When first we
looked at it the colour throughout was a bluish purple; suddenly it
changed to a red with resplendent border of fiery orange. Next it
collapsed, getting broader and rounder, and becoming a dark blue, almost
approaching to black, while the border beneath was orange-red. But the
glowing magnificence of the colour it is impossible to describe in words;
and the best artist would have failed to reproduce it even were he ten
times a Turner.
At this moment, and just as the cloud was becoming elongated again,
Moncrieff came to our side. His usually bright face fell at once as soon
as he glanced at it.
'Locusts!' He almost gasped the word out.
'Locusts!' was re-echoed from every corner of the carriage; and
immediately all eyes were strained in the direction of our 'lofty golden
cloud.'
As we approached nearer to it, and it came nearer to us, even the light
from the setting sun was obscured, and in a short time we were in the
cloud, and apparently part of it. It had become almost too dark to see
anything inside our carriage, owing to that dense and awful fog of insect
life. We quickly closed the windows, for the loathsome insects were now
pattering against the glass, and many had already obtained admittance,
much to the horror of young Mrs. Moncrieff, though aunt took matters easy
enough, having seen such sights before.
The train now slowly came to a standstill. Something--no one appeared to
know what--had happened on ahead of us, and here we must wait till the
line was clear. Even Moncrieff's mother had awakened, and was looking out
with the rest of us.
'Dearie me! Dearie me!' she exclaimed. 'A shower o' golochs! The very
licht o' day darkened wi' the fu'some craiters. Ca' you this a land o'
milk and honey? Egyptian darkness and showers o' golochs!'
We descended and walked some little distance into the country, and the
sight presented to our astonished gaze I, for one, will not forget to my
dying day. The locusts were still around us, but were bearing away
southward, having already devastated the fields in this vicinity. But they
fell in hundreds and thousands around us; they struck against our hands,
our faces, and hats; they got into our sleeves, and even into our pockets;
and we could not take a step without squashing them under foot.
Only an hour before we had been passing through a country whose green
fertility was something to behold once and dream about for ever. Evidence
of wealth and contentment had been visible on all sides. Beautiful,
home-looking, comfortable _estancias_ and out-buildings, fat, sleek cattle
and horses, and flocks of beautiful sheep, with feathered fowls of every
description. But here, though there were not wanting good farmsteadings,
all was desolation and threatened famine; hardly a green blade or leaf was
left, and the woebegone looks of some of the people we met wandering
aimlessly about, dazed and almost distracted, were pitiful to behold. I
was not sorry when a shriek from the engine warned us that it was time to
retrace our slippery footsteps.
'Is this a common occurrence?' I could not help asking our friend
Moncrieff.
He took me kindly by the arm as he replied,
'It's a depressing sight to a youngster, I must allow; but we should not
let our thoughts dwell on it. Sometimes the locusts are a terrible plague,
but they manage to get over even that. Come in, and we'll light up the
saloon.'
For hours after this the pattering continued at the closed windows,
showing that the shower of golochs had not yet ceased to fall. But with
lights inside, the carriage looked comfortable and cheerful enough, and
when presently Moncrieff got out Bombazo's guitar and handed it to him,
and that gentleman began to sing, we soon got happy again, and forgot even
the locusts--at least, all but Moncrieff's mother did. She had gone to
sleep in a corner, but sometimes we heard her muttering to herself, in her
dreams, about the 'land o' promise,' 'showers of golochs,' and 'Egyptian
darkness.'
The last thing I remember as I curled up on the floor of the saloon, with
a saddle for a pillow and a rug round me--for the night had grown bitterly
cold--was Bombazo's merry face as he strummed on his sweet guitar and sang
of tresses dark, and love-lit eyes, and sunny Spain. This was a delightful
way of going to sleep; the awakening was not quite so pleasant, however,
for I opened my eyes only to see a dozen of the ugly 'golochs' on my rug,
and others asquat on the saddle, washing their faces as flies do. I got up
and went away to wash mine.
The sun was already high in the heavens, and on opening a window and
looking out, I found we were passing through a woodland country, and that
far away in the west were rugged hills. Surely, then, we were nearing the
end of our journey.
I asked our mentor Moncrieff, and right cheerily he replied,
'Yes, my lad, and we'll soon be in Cordoba now.'
This visit of ours to Cordoba was in reality a little pleasure trip, got
up for the special delectation of our aunt and young Mrs. Moncrieff. It
formed part and parcel of the Scotchman's honeymoon, which, it must be
allowed, was a very chequered one.
If the reader has a map handy he will find the name Villa Maria thereon, a
place lying between Rosario and Cordoba. This was our station, and there
we had left all heavy baggage, including Moncrieff's people. On our return
we should once more resume travelling together westward still by Mercedes.
And thence to our destination would be by far and away the most eventful
portion of the journey.
'Look out,' continued Moncrieff, 'and behold the rugged summits of the
grand old hills.'
'And these are the Sierras?'
'These are the Sierras; and doesn't the very sight of mountains once again
fill your heart with joy? Don't you want to sing and jump--'
'And call aloud for joy,' said his mother, who had come up to have a peep
over our shoulders. 'Dearie me,' she added, 'they're no half so bonny and
green as the braes o' Foudland.'
'Ah! mither, wait till you get to our beautiful home in Mendoza. Ye'll be
charmed wi' a' you see.'
'I wish,' I said, 'I was half as enthusiastic as you are, Moncrieff.'
'You haven't been many days in the Silver Land. Wait, lad, wait! When once
you've fairly settled and can feel at home, man, you'll think the time as
short as pleasure itself. Days and weeks flee by like winking, and every
day and every week brings its own round o' duty to perform. And all the
time you'll be makin' money as easy as makin' slates.'
'Money isn't everything,' I said.
'No, lad, money isn't everything; but money is a deal in this wo_rrr_ld,
and we mustn't forget that money puts the power in our hands to do others
good, and that I think is the greatest pleasure of a'. And you know,
Murdoch, that if God does put talents in our hands He expects us to make
use of them.'
'True enough, Moncrieff,' I said.
'See, see! that is Cordoba down in the hollow yonder, among the hills.
Look, mither! see how the domes and steeples sparkle in the mornin's
sunshine. Yonder dome is the cathedral, and further off you see the
observatory, and maybe, mither, you'll have a peep through a telescope
that will bring the moon so near to you that you'll be able to see the
good folks thereon ploughin' fields and milkin' kye.'
We stayed at Cordoba for four days. I felt something of the old pleasant
languor of Rio stealing over me again as I lounged about the handsome
streets, gazed on the ancient churches and convent, and its world-renowned
University, or climbed its _barranca_, or wandered by the Rio Balmeiro,
and through the lovely and romantic suburbs. In good sooth, Cordoba is a
dreamy old place, and I felt better for being in it. The weather was all
in our favour also, being dry, and neither hot nor cold, although it was
now winter in these regions. I was sorry to leave Cordoba, and so I feel
sure was aunt, and even old Jenny.
Then came the journey back to Villa Maria, and thence away westward to
Villa Mercedes. The railway to the latter place had not long been opened.
It seems all like a beautiful halo--that railway ride to the _Ultima
Thule_ of the iron horse--and, like a dream, it is but indistinctly
remembered. Let me briefly catch the salient points of this pleasant
journey.
Villa Maria we reach in the evening. The sun is setting in a golden haze;
too golden, for it bodes rain, and presently down it comes in a steady
pour, changing the dust of the roads into the stickiest of mud, and
presently into rivers. Moncrieff is here, there, and everywhere, seeing
after his manifold goods and chattels; but just as the short twilight is
deepening into night, he returns 'dressed and dry,' as he calls it, to the
snug little room of the inn, where a capital dinner is spread for us, and
we are all hungry. Even old Jenny, forgetting her troubles and travels,
makes merry music with knife and fork, and Bombazo is all smiles and
chatter. It rains still; what of that? It will drown the mosquitoes and
other flying 'jerlies.' It is even pleasant to listen to the rattle of the
rain-drops during the few lulls there were in the conversation. The sound
makes the room inside seem ever so much more cosy. Besides, there is a
fire in the grate, and, to add to our enjoyment, Bombazo has his guitar.
Even the landlord takes the liberty of lingering in the room, standing
modestly beside the door, to listen. It is long, he tells us, since he has
had so cheerful a party at his house.
Aileen, as Moncrieff calls his pretty bride, is not long in discovering
that the innkeeper hails from her own sweet Isle of Sorrow, and many
friendly questions are asked on both sides.
Bed at last. A bright morning, the sun coming up red and rosy through an
ocean of clouds more gorgeous than ever yet was seen in tame old England.
We are all astir very early. We are all merry and hungry. Farewells are
said, and by and by off we rattle. The train moves very slowly at first,
but presently warms to her work and settles down to it. We catch a glimpse
of a town some distance off, and nearer still the silver gleam of a river
reflecting the morning sun. By and by we are on the river bridge, and
over it, and so on and away through an open pampa. Such, at least, I call
it. Green swelling land all around, with now and then a lake or loch
swarming with web-footed fowl, the sight of which makes Dugald's eyes
water.
We pass station after station, stopping at all. More woods, more pampa;
thriving fields and fertile lands; _estancias_, flocks of sheep, herds of
happy cattle. A busy, bustling railway station, with as much noise around
it as we find at Clapham Junction; another river--the Rio Cuarto, if my
memory does not play me false; pampas again, with hills in the distance.
Wine and water-melons at a station; more wine and more water-melons at
another.
After this I think I fall asleep, and I wonder now if the wine and the
water-melons had anything to do with that. I awake at last and rub my
eyes. Bombazo is also dozing; so is old Jenny. Old Jenny is a marvel to
sleep. Dugald is as bright as a humming bird; he says I have lost a
sight.
'What was the sight?'
'Oh, droves upon droves of real wild horses, wilder far than our ponies at
Coila.'
I close my eyes again. Dear old Coila! I wish Dugald had not mentioned the
word. It takes me back again in one moment across the vast and mighty
ocean we have crossed to our home, to father, mother, and Flora.
Before long we are safe at Villa Mercedes. Not much to see here, and the
wind blows cold from west and south.
We are not going to lodge in the town, however. We are independent of
inns, if there are any, and independent of everything. We are going under
canvas.
Already our pioneers have the camp ready in a piece of ground sheltered by
a row of lordly poplars; and to-morrow morning we start by road for the
far interior.
* * * * *
Another glorious morning! There is a freshness in the air which almost
amounts to positive cold, and reminds one of a November day in Scotland.
Bombazo calls it bitterly cold, and my aunt has distributed guanaco
ponchos to us, and has adorned herself with her own. Yes, adorned is the
right word to apply to auntie's own travelling toilet; but we brothers
think we look funny in ours, and laugh at each other in turn. Moncrieff
sticks to the Highland plaid, but the sight of a guanaco poncho to old
Jenny does, I verily believe, make her the happiest old lady in all the
Silver Land. She is mounted in the great canvas-covered waggon, which is
quite a caravan in every respect. It has even windows in the sides and
real doorways, and is furnished inside with real sofas and Indian-made
chairs, to say nothing of hammocks and tables and a stove. This caravan is
drawn by four beautiful horses, and will be our sitting-room and
dining-room by day, and the ladies' boudoir and bedroom for some time to
come.
Away we rattle westwards, dozens of soldiers, half-bred Chilians, Gauchos,
and a crowd of dark-eyed but dirty children, giving us a ringing cheer as
we start.
What a cavalcade it is, to be sure! Waggons, drays, carts, mules, and
horses. All our imported Scotchmen are riding, and glorious fellows they
look. Each has a rifle slung across his shoulder, belts and sheath knives,
and broad sombrero hat. The giant Moncrieff himself is riding, and looks
to me the bravest of the brave. I and each of my brothers have undertaken
to drive a cart or waggon, and we feel men from hat to boots, and as proud
all over as a cock with silver spurs.
We soon leave behind us those tall, mysterious-looking poplar trees. So
tall are they that, although when we turned out not a breath of wind was
blowing on the surface of the ground, away aloft their summits were waving
gently to and fro, with a whispering sound, as if they were talking to
unseen spirits in the sky.
We leave even the _estancias_ behind. We are out now on the lonesome
rolling plain. Here and there are woods; away, far away, behind us are the
jagged summits of the everlasting hills. By and by the diligence, a
strange-looking rattle-trap of a coach--a ghost of a coach, I might call
it--goes rattling and swaying past us. Its occupants raise a feeble cheer,
to which we respond with a three times three; for we seem to like to hear
our voices.
After this we feel more alone than ever. On and on and on we jog. The road
is broad and fairly good; our waggons have broad wheels; this retards our
speed, but adds to our comfort and that of the mules and horses.
Before very long we reach a broad river, and in we plunge, the horsemen
leading the van, with the water up to their saddle-girths. I give the
reins of my team to my attendant Gaucho, and, running forward, jump on
board the caravan to keep the ladies company while we fight the ford. But
the ladies are in no way afraid; they are enjoying themselves in the front
of the carriage, which is open. Old Jenny is in an easy-chair and buried
to the nose in her guanaco robe. She is muttering something to herself,
and as I bend down to listen I can catch the words: 'Dearie me! Dearie me!
When'll ever we reach the Land o' Promise? Egyptian darkness! Showers of
golochs! Chariots and horsemen! Dearie me! Dearie me!'
But we are over at last, and our whole cavalcade looks sweeter and fresher
for the bath.
Presently we reach a corral, where two men beckon to Moncrieff. They are
wild and uncouth enough in all conscience; their baggy breeches and
ponchos are in sad need of repair, and a visit to a barber would add to
the respectability of their appearance. They look excited, wave their
arms, and point southwards. But they talk in a strange jargon, and there
are but two words intelligible to me. These, however, are enough to set my
heart throbbing with a strange feeling of uneasiness I never felt before.
'_Los Indios! Los Indios!_'
Moncrieff points significantly to his armed men and smiles. The Gauchos
wave their arms in the air, rapidly opening and shutting their hands in a
way that to me is very mysterious. And so they disappear.