THE ADVENTURERS
A Story of a Love-Chase
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF
"LAST OF THE INCAS," "QUEEN OF THE SAVANNAH,"
ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET.
1863.
PREFACE.
With the publication of the present and the ensuing volume, "The Pearl
of the Andes," I am enabled to perfect the most important series of
Aimard's Tales of Indian Life and Adventure. To preserve uniformity, the
volumes of this series should be arranged in the following order on the
book-shelf;--
1. THE ADVENTURERS.
2. THE PEARL OF THE ANDES.
3. THE TRAIL-HUNTER.
4. PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES.
5. THE TRAPPER'S BRIDE.
6. THE TIGER SLAYER.
7. THE GOLD SEEKERS.
8. THE INDIAN CHIEF.
9. THE RED TRACK.
Gustave Aimard has a precedent in Fenimore Cooper for introducing the
same hero in a long range of volumes, and, like his great predecessor,
he has so arranged, that each work should be complete in itself, and
not necessitate the purchase of another. But Aimard has one marked
advantage over Cooper; for while "Leather-Stocking" is but a creation
of the fancy, or, at the most, the type of the Backwoodsman, the Count
Louis who figures as the hero of Aimard's series, is a real man. Count
de Raousset Boulbon, had he succeeded in his daring attempt of founding
an independent kingdom in Mexico, would in all probability have become
the Napoleon of the West. A gallant adventurer and thorough gentleman,
he staked his life upon the issue, and ended his career the victim
of unparalleled treachery, as Aimard has faithfully recorded. Hence
Aimard's romances have the great merit of being founded on an historic
basis, and but little fiction was required to heighten the startling
interest of the narrative.
Valentine Guillois, there is very little doubt, is intended for the
Author himself, with all his qualities and defects. When he first
reached the New World, he was the true, reckless Parisian; but constant
intercourse with nature rendered him a generous and thoughtful friend
of humanity. So soon as he returned to civilization, he began recording
the history of his past life; not so much as a livelihood, as for
the pleasure he felt in living once again the life of excitement and
adventure which he had known among the Indians. Hence his books are
written without an effort; they flow spontaneously from his pen; and the
absence of artistic effect is the best guarantee of their truthfulness.
It is not surprising, consequently, that M. Aimard's books have met
with such extensive popularity. They have been translated into nearly
every modern language, and the Author is now generally recognised as the
French Cooper. The reception given to his stories in this country has
been most flattering, and each day heightens their popularity. Hence
it is not too much to assume that they will become standard works,
especially with young readers, for whom they are especially adapted;
because M. Aimard has never yet written a line which could prove
offensive to the most delicate mind.
L.W.
CONTENTS.
I. THE CHAPARRAL
II. THE FOSTER BROTHERS
III. THE RESOLUTION
IV. THE EXECUTION
V. THE PASSAGE
VI. THE LINDA
VII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
VIII. THE DARK-HEARTS
IX. IN THE STREET
X. SWORD-THRUSTS
XI. GENERAL BUSTAMENTE
XII. THE SPY
XIII. LOVE
XIV. THE QUINTA VERDE
XV. THE DEPARTURE
XVI. THE MEETING
XVII. THE PUELCHES
XVIII. THE BLACK JACKAL
XIX. TWO OLD FRIENDS
XX. THE SORCERER
XXI. THE OBSEQUIES OF AN APO-ULMEN
XXII. EXPLANATIONS
XXIII. THE CHINGANA.
XXIV. THE TWO ULMENS
XXV. THE SUN-TIGER
XXVI. THE MATRICIDE
XXVII. THE JUSTICE OF THE DARK-HEARTS
XXVIII. THE TREATY OF PEACE
XXIX. THE ABDUCTION
XXX. THE PROTEST
XXXI. SPANIARD AND INDIAN
XXXII. IN THE MOUNTAIN
XXXIII. ON THE WATCH
XXXIV. FACE TO FACE
XXXV. THE REVOLT
XXXVI. THE LION AT BAY
XXXVII. THE TRUCE
XXXVIII. TWO ROGUISH PROFILES
XXXIX. THE WOUNDED MAN
XL. ARAUCANIAN DIPLOMACY
XLI. THE COUNCIL
XLII. THE NIGHT JOURNEY
XLIII. TWO HATREDS
XLIV. THE RETURN TO VALDIVIA
XLV. THE FATHER REVEALS HIMSELF
XLVI. CURUMILLA
CHAPTER I.
THE CHAPARRAL.
During my last sojourn in America, chance, or rather my good star, led
me to form an acquaintance with one of those hunters, or wood rangers,
the type of whom has been immortalized by Cooper, in his poetical
personage, _Leather-Stockings_.
The strange circumstance by which we were brought together was as
follows. Towards the end of July, 1855, I had left Galveston, terrified
at the fevers prevalent there, which are so fatal to Europeans, with the
intention of visiting the north-west portion of Texas, a country I was
then unacquainted with.
A Spanish proverb somewhere says, "It is better to go alone than in
bad company;" and, like all other proverbs, this possesses a certain
foundation of truth, particularly in America, where the traveller is
exposed at each instant to the chance of meeting rogues of every hue,
who, thanks to their seducing exterior, charm him, win his confidence,
and take advantage of the first occasion to remorselessly plunder and
assassinate him.
I had profited by the proverb, and, like a shrewd old traveller of the
prairies, as I knew no one who inspired me with sufficient sympathy
to lead me to make him my travelling companion, I had bravely set out
alone, clothed in the picturesque dress of the inhabitants of the
country, armed to the teeth, and mounted upon an excellent half wild
horse, which had cost me twenty-five piastres--an enormous sum in those
countries, where horses are considered as worth little or nothing.
I carelessly wandered here and there, living that nomadic life which
is so full of attractions; at times stopping at a _toldería_, at
others encamping in the desert, hunting wild animals, and plunging
deeper and deeper into unknown regions. I had, in this fashion, passed
through, without any untoward accident, Fredericksburgh, the Llana
Braunfels, and had just left Castroville, on my way to Quichi. Like
all Spanish-American villages, Castroville is nothing but a miserable
agglomeration of ruined cabins, cut at right angles by streets choked
with weeds, growing undisturbed, and concealing multitudes of ants,
reptiles, and even rabbits of a very small breed, which spring up
beneath the feet of the few passengers. The _pueblo_ is bounded on the
west by the Medina, a slender thread of water, almost dry in the great
heat seasons; and on the east by thickly-wooded hills, the dark green of
which forms a pleasing contrast with the pale blue of the sky.
At Galveston I had undertaken to deliver a letter to an inhabitant of
Castroville. The worthy man lived in this village like La Fontaine's rat
in the depths of its Dutch cheese. Charmed by the arrival of a stranger,
who, no doubt, brought him news for which he had been long anxious, he
received me in the most cordial manner, and thought of every expedient
to detain me. Unfortunately, the little I had seen of Castroville had
sufficed to completely disgust me with it, and my only wish was to get
out of it as quickly as possible. My host, in despair at seeing all
his advances repulsed, at length consented to allow me to continue my
journey.
"Adieu, then," he said, warmly pressing my hand, with a sigh of regret;
"since you are determined to go, may God protect you! You are wrong
in setting out so late; the road you have to travel is dangerous; the
_Indios bravos_ are up; they assassinate without mercy all the whites
who fall into their hands--beware!"
I smiled at this warning, which I took for a last effort of the worthy
man to detain me.
"Bah!" I replied gaily; "the Indians and I are too old acquaintances for
me to fear anything on their account."
My host shook his head sorrowfully, and retreated into his hut, making
me a last farewell greeting. I again set forward. I soon began to
reflect that it was full late, and pressed my horse, in order to pass,
before nightfall, a _chaparral_, or large thicket of underwood, of at
least two miles in length, against which my host had particularly warned
me. This ill-famed spot had a very sinister aspect. The mezquite, the
acacia, and the cactus constituted its sole vegetation, while here and
there, whitened bones and planted crosses plainly designated places
where murders had been committed. Beyond that extended a vast plain,
called the Leona, peopled by animals of every description. This plain,
covered by grass at least two feet in height, was dotted at intervals
with thickets of trees, upon which warbled thousands of golden-throated
starlings, cardinals, and bluebirds. I was anxious to reach the
Leona, which I saw in the distance; but ere I did so, I had to cross
the chaparral. After examining my weapons, and looking carefully in
all directions, as I could perceive nothing positively suspicious, I
resolutely spurred my horse forward, determined, if attacked, to sell my
life as dearly as possible.
The sun, in the meantime, was sinking rapidly towards the horizon, the
ruddy hues of closing day tinged with their changing reflections the
summits of the wooded hills, and a fresh breeze agitated the branches
of the trees with mysterious murmurs. In this country, where there is
no twilight, night was not long in enveloping me in thick darkness, and
that before I had passed through two-thirds of the chaparral.
I was beginning to hope I should reach the Leona safe and sound, when,
all at once, my horse made a violent bound on one side, pricking up its
ears, and snorting loudly. The sudden shock almost threw me out of the
saddle, and it was not without trouble that I recovered the mastery
over my horse, which displayed signs of the greatest terror. As always
happens in such cases, I instinctively looked round me for the cause of
this panic; and soon the truth was revealed to me. A cold perspiration
bedewed my brow, and a shudder of terror ran through my whole frame, at
the horrible spectacle which met my eyes. Five dead human bodies lay
stretched beneath the trees, within ten paces of me. Among them was
one of a woman, and one of a girl about fourteen years of age. They
all belonged to the white race. They appeared to have fought long and
obstinately before they fell; they were literally covered with wounds;
and long arrows, with jagged barbs, and painted red, stood out from the
bodies, which they had pierced through and through. The victims had all
been scalped. It was evidently the work of Indians, marked with their
sanguinary rage, and their inveterate hatred for the white race. The
form and colour of the arrows told me that the perpetrators of this
atrocity were the Apaches, the most cruel plunderers of the desert.
Around the bodies I observed fragments of both wagons and furniture. The
unfortunate beings, assassinated with refined cruelty, had, no doubt,
been poor emigrants on their way to Castroville.
At the aspect of this heartbreaking spectacle, I cannot express the pity
and grief which weighed upon my spirits; high in the air, urubus and
vultures hovered with lazy wings over the bodies, uttering lugubrious
cries of joy, whilst in the depths of the chaparral the wolves and
jaguars began to growl portentously.
I cast a melancholy glance around: all immediately near to me was quiet.
The Apaches had, according to all appearances, surprised the emigrants
during a halt. Gutted bales were still ranged in a symmetrical circle,
and a fire, near which was a heap of dry wood, was not yet extinguished.
"No!" said I to myself, "whatever may happen, I will not leave
Christians without burial, to become, in this desert, the prey of wild
beasts."
My resolution, once formed, was soon carried into execution. Springing
to the ground, I hobbled my horse, gave it some provender, and cast some
branches of wood upon the fire, which soon sparkled and sent into the
air a column of bright flame. Among the necessaries of the emigrants
were spades, pickaxes, and other agricultural instruments, which, being
of no use to the Indians, they had disdainfully left behind them. I
seized a spade, and, after having carefully explored the environs
of my encampment, to assure myself that no immediate danger need be
apprehended, I set to work to dig a grave.
The night had now set in; one of those American nights, clear,
silent, full of intoxicating odours, and mysterious melodies chanted
by the desert in praise of God. Extraordinary to say, all my fears
had vanished, as if by enchantment! Though alone in this sinister
place, close to these frightfully-mutilated carcasses, watched in the
darkness, no doubt, by the unseen eyes of wild beasts, and, perhaps,
of the murderous Indians, some incomprehensible influence sustained
me, and gave me strength to accomplish the rude but sacred task I had
undertaken. Instead of thinking of the dangers which surrounded me, I
found myself yielding to a pensive melancholy. I thought of these poor
people, who had come from distant lands, full of hope for the future,
to seek in the New World a little of the comfort and well-being which
were denied to them at home, and who, scarcely landed, had fallen, in an
obscure corner of the desert, by the hands of ferocious savages. They
had left in their own country friends, perhaps relations, to whom their
fate would for ever remain a mystery, and who would for years reckon
the hours with anxiety, looking for their much-wished return, or for
intelligence of their success in their bold undertaking.
Except two or three alarms caused by the rustling of the leaves in the
bushes, nothing occurred to interrupt my melancholy duty. In less than
three-quarters of an hour I had dug a grave large enough to contain the
five bodies. After extracting the arrows by which they were transfixed,
I raised them one after the other in my arms, and laid them gently
side by side at the bottom of the grave. I then hastened to throw in
the mould again, till it was level with the sod; and that being done,
I dragged upon the surface all the large stones I could find, to keep
wild beasts from profaning the dead. This religious duty accomplished,
I breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction, and bowing my head towards the
ground, I mentally addressed a short prayer to the Almighty, for the
unfortunate beings I had buried.
Upon raising my head, I uttered a cry of surprise and terror, while at
the same time mechanically feeling for my revolver; for, without the
least noise having given me warning of his approach, a man was standing
within four paces of me, watching me earnestly, and leaning on his long
rifle. Two magnificent Newfoundland dogs were lying carelessly but
quietly at his feet. On observing my gesture, the unknown smiled with a
kindly expression, and holding out his hand to me over the grave, said--
"Fear nothing! I am a friend. You have buried these poor people; _I_
have avenged them--their assassins are dead!"
I silently pressed the hand that was so frankly extended to me.
Acquaintance was formed--we were friends--we are so still! A few minutes
later we were seated near the fire, supping together with a good
appetite, while the dogs kept watch against intruders.
The companion I had fallen in with in so curious a manner was a man of
about forty-five years of age, although he did not appear to be more
than thirty-two. He was tall and well made; his broad shoulders and
muscular limbs denoting extraordinary strength and agility. He wore the
picturesque hunter's costume in all its purity, that is to say, the
_capote_, or surtout (which is nothing but a kind of blanket worn as a
robe, fastened to the shoulders, and falling in long folds behind), a
shirt of striped cotton, large _mitasses_ (drawers of doeskin, stitched
with hair, fastened at distances, and ornamented with little bells),
leather gaiters, moccasins of elk skin, braided with beads and porcupine
quills, and a checked woollen belt, from which hung his knife, tobacco
pouch, powder horn, pistols, and medicine bag. His headdress consisted
of a cap made of the skin of a beaver, the tail of which fell between
his shoulders. This man was a type of a hardy race of adventurers who
traverse America in all directions. A primitive race, longing for
open air, space, and liberty, opposed to our ideas of civilization,
and consequently destined to disappear before the immigration of the
laborious races, whose powerful agents of conquest are steam and the
application of mechanical inventions of all kinds.
This hunter was a Frenchman, and his frank, manly countenance, his
picturesque language, his open and engaging manners, notwithstanding
his long abode in America, had preserved a reflex of the mother country
which awakened sympathy and created interest.
All the countries of the New World were familiar to him; he had lived
more than twenty years in the depths of the woods, and had been engaged
in dangerous and distant excursions among the Indian tribes. Hence,
although myself well initiated in the customs of the redskins, and
though a great part of my existence had been passed in the desert, I
have felt myself often shudder involuntarily at the recital of his
adventures. When seated beside him on the banks of the Rio Gila, during
an excursion we had undertaken into the prairies, he would at times
allow himself to be carried away by his remembrances, and relate to me,
as he smoked his Indian pipe, the strange history of the early days
of his abode in the New World. It is one of these recitals I am about
to lay before my readers--the first in order of date, since it is the
history of the events which led him to become a wood ranger. I do not
venture to hope that my readers will take the interest in it which it
excited in me; but I beg them to have the kindness to recollect that
this narrative was told me in the desert, amidst that grand, vast, and
powerful nature, unknown to the inhabitants of old Europe, and that I
had it from the lips of the man who had been the hero.