Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Forest Exiles, by Captain Mayne Reid.
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Thinly disguised as a book about the fortunes of a family of exiles in
the forests of Peru, this is actually a very well-written book about the
natural history of the region. Its style makes it eminently readable,
and even today anyone reading it will be amused and interested.
The story is supposed to have taken place in the early part of the
nineteenth century.
There are a good many Spanish and native Indian words, but this does not
affect the readability of the various chapters, each of which deals with
some aspect of the natural history of the region. It makes a good
audiobook.
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THE FOREST EXILES, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE BIGGEST WOOD IN THE WORLD.
Boy reader, I am told that you are not tired of my company. Is this
true?
"Quite true, dear Captain,--quite true!" That is your reply. You speak
sincerely? I believe you do.
In return, believe _me_, when I tell you I am not tired of yours; and
the best proof I can give is, that I have come once more to seek you. I
have come to solicit the pleasure of your company,--not to an evening
party, nor to a ball, nor to the Grand Opera, nor to the Crystal Palace,
nor yet to the Zoological Gardens of Regent's Park,--no, but to the
great zoological garden of Nature. I have come to ask you to accompany
me on another "campaign,"--another "grand journey" through the fields of
Science and Adventure. Will you go?
"Most willingly--with you, dear Captain, anywhere."
Come with me, then.
Again we turn our faces westward; again we cross the blue and billowy
Atlantic; again we seek the shores of the noble continent of America.
"What! to America again?"
Ha! that is a large continent, and you need not fear that I am going to
take you over old ground. No, fear not that! New scenes await us; a
new _fauna_, a new _flora_,--I might almost say, a new earth and a new
sky!
You shall have variety, I promise you,--a perfect contrast to the scenes
of our last journey.
Then, you remember, we turned our faces to the cold and icy North,--now
our path lies through the hot and sunny South. Then we lived in a
log-hut, and closed every cranny to keep out the cold,--now, in our
cottage of palms and cane, we shall be but too glad to let the breeze
play through the open walls. Then we wrapped our bodies in thick
furs,--now we shall be content with the lightest garments. Then we were
bitten by the frost,--now we shall be bitten by sand-flies, and
mosquitoes, and bats, and snakes, and scorpions, and spiders, and stung
by wasps, and centipedes, and great red ants! Trust me, you shall have
a change!
Perhaps you do not contemplate _such_ a change with any very lively
feelings of pleasure. Come! do not be alarmed at the snakes, and
scorpions, and centipedes! We shall find a cure for every bite--an
antidote for every bane.
Our new journey shall have its pleasures and advantages. Remember how
of old we shivered as we slept, coiled up in the corner of our dark
log-hut and smothered in skins,--now we shall swing lightly in our
netted hammocks under the gossamer leaves of the palm-tree, or the
feathery frondage of the ferns. Then we gazed upon leaden skies, and at
night looked upon the cold constellation of the Northern Bear;--now, we
shall have over us an azure canopy, and shall nightly behold the
sparkling glories of the Southern Cross, still shining as bright as when
Paul and his little Virginie with loving eyes gazed upon it from their
island home. In our last journey we toiled over bleak and barren
wastes, across frozen lakes, and marshes, and rivers;--now we shall pass
under the shadows of virgin forests, and float lightly upon the bosom of
broad majestic streams, whose shores echo with the voices of living
nature.
Hitherto our travels have been upon the wide, open prairie, the
trackless plain of sand, the frozen lake, the thin scattering woods of
the North, or the treeless snow-clad "Barrens." Now we are about to
enter a great forest,--a forest where the leaves never fade, where the
flowers are always in bloom,--a forest where the woodman's axe has not
yet echoed, where the colonist has hardly hewed out a single clearing,--
a vast primeval forest,--the largest in the world.
How large, do you ask? I can hardly tell you. Are you thinking of
Epping, or the New Forest? True, these are large woods, and have been
larger at one time. But if you draw your ideas of a great forest from
either of these you must prepare yourself for a startling announcement--
and that is, that the forest through which I am going to take you is _as
big as all Europe_! There is one place where a straight line might be
drawn across this forest that would measure the enormous length of two
thousand six hundred miles! And there is a point in it from which a
circle might be described, with a diameter of more than a thousand
miles, and the whole area included within this vast circumference would
be found covered with an unbroken forest!
I need scarce tell you what forest I allude to, for there is none other
in the world of such dimensions--none to compare with that vast,
trackless forest that covers the valley of the mighty Amazon!
And what shall we see in travelling through this tree-covered expanse?
Many a strange form of life--both vegetable and animal. We shall see
the giant "ceiba" tree, and the "zamang," and the "caoba," twined by
huge parasites almost as thick as their own trunks, and looking as
though they embraced but to crush them; the "juvia," with its
globe-shaped fruits as large as the human head; the "cow-tree," with its
abundant fountains of rich milk; the "seringa," with its valuable gum--
the caoutchouc of commerce; the "cinchona," with its fever-killing bark;
the curious "volador," with its winged seeds; the wild indigo, and the
arnatto. We shall see palms of many species--some with trunks smooth
and cylindrical, others covered with thorns, sharp and thickly set--some
with broad entire leaves, others with fronds pinnate and feathery, and
still others whose leaves are of the shape of a fan--some rising like
naked columns to the height of an hundred and fifty feet, while others
scarcely attain to the standard of an ordinary man.
On the water we shall see beautiful lilies--the snow-white _nymphs_, and
the yellow _nuphars_. We shall see the _Victoria regia_ covering the
pool with its massive wax-like flowers, and huge circular leaves of
bronze green. We shall see tall flags like Saracen spears, and the dark
green culms of gigantic rushes, and the golden _arundinaria_--the
bamboo, and "cana brava,"--that rival the forest trees in height.
Many a form of animal life we may behold. Basking in the sun, we may
behold the yellow and spotted body of the jaguar--a beautiful but
dreaded sight. Breaking through the thick underwood, or emerging slowly
from the water, we may catch a glimpse of the sombre tapir, or the
red-brown capivara. We may see the ocelot skulking through the deep
shade, or the margay springing upon its winged prey. We may see the
shaggy ant-bear tearing at the cones of sand-clay, and licking up the
white termites; or we may behold the scaly armadillo crawling over the
sun-parched earth, and rolling itself up at the approach of danger. We
may see human-like forms,--the _quadrumana_--clinging among the high
branches, and leaping from tree to tree, like birds upon the wing; we
may see them of many shapes, sizes, and colours, from the great howling
monkeys, with their long prehensile tails, down to the little saimiris
and ouistitis not larger than squirrels.
What beautiful birds, too!--for this forest is their favourite home.
Upon the ground, the large curassows, and guans, and the "gallo," with
his plumage of bright red. Upon the trees, the macaws, and parrots, and
toucans, and trogons. In the waters, the scarlet flamingoes, the
ibises, and the tall herons; and in the air, the hawks, the zamuros, the
king-vultures, and the eagles.
We shall see much of the reptile world, both by land and water. Basking
upon the bank, or floating along the stream, we may behold the great
water lizards--the crocodile and caiman; or the unwieldy forms of the
_cheloniae_--the turtles. Nimbly running along the tree-trunk, or up
the slanting lliana, we may see the crested iguana, hideous to behold.
On the branches that overhang the silent pool we may see the
"water-boa," of huge dimensions, watching for his prey--the peccary, the
capivara, the paca, or the agouti; and in the dry forest we may meet
with his congener the "stag-swallower," twined around a tree, and
waiting for the roebuck or the little red-deer of the woods.
We may see the mygale, or bird-catching spider, at the end of his strong
net-trap, among the thick foliage; and the tarantula, at the bottom of
his dark pitfall, constructed in the ground. We may see the tent-like
hills of the white ants, raised high above the surface, and the nests of
many other kinds, hanging from high branches, and looking as though they
had been constructed out of raw silk and pasteboard. We may see trees
covered with these nests, and some with the nests of wasps, and still
others with those of troupials and orioles--birds of the genus _icterus_
and _cassicus_--hanging down like long cylindrical purses.
All these, and many more strange sights, may be seen in the great forest
of the Amazon valley; and some of them we shall see--_voila_!
CHAPTER TWO.
THE REFUGEES.
Upon a bright and lovely evening, many years ago, a party of travellers
might have been seen climbing up that Cordillera of the Andes that lies
to the eastward of the ancient city of Cuzco. It was a small and
somewhat singular party of travellers; in fact, a travelling family,--
father, mother, children, and one attendant. We shall say a word of
each of them separately.
The chief of the party was a tall and handsome man, of nearly forty
years of age. His countenance bespoke him of Spanish race, and so he
was. He was not a Spaniard, however, but a Spanish-American, or
"Creole," for so Spaniards born in America are called to distinguish
them from the natives of Old Spain.
Remember--Creoles are _not_ people with negro or African blood in their
veins. There is a misconception on this head in England, and elsewhere.
The African races of America are either negroes, mulattoes, quadroons,
quinteroons, or mestizoes; but the "Creoles" are of European blood,
though born in America. Remember this. Don Pablo Romero--for that was
the name of our traveller--was a Creole, a native of Cuzco, which, as
you know, was the ancient capital of the Incas of Peru.
Don Pablo, as already stated, was nearly forty years of age. Perhaps he
looked older. His life had not been spent in idleness. Much study,
combined with a good deal of suffering and care, had made many of those
lines that rob the face of its youthful appearance. Still, although his
look was serious, and just then sad, his eye was occasionally seen to
brighten, and his light elastic step showed that he was full of vigour
and manhood. He had a moustache, very full and black, but his whiskers
were clean shaven, and his hair cut short, after the fashion of most
people in Spanish America. He wore velvet pantaloons, trimmed at the
bottoms with black stamped leather, and upon his feet were strong boots
of a reddish yellow colour--that is, the natural colour of the tanned
hide before it has been stained. A dark jacket, closely buttoned,
covered the upper part of his body, and a scarlet silk sash encircled
his waist, the long fringed ends hanging down over the left hip. In
this sash were stuck a Spanish knife and a pair of pistols, richly
ornamented with silver mountings. But all these things were concealed
from the view by a capacious poncho, which is a garment that in South
America serves as a cloak by day and a blanket by night. It is nearly
of the size and shape of an ordinary blanket, with a slit in the centre,
through which the head is passed, leaving the ends to hang down.
Instead of being of uniform colour, several bright colours are usually
woven into the poncho, forming a variety of patterns. In Mexico a very
similar garment--the scrape--is almost universally worn. The poncho of
Don Pablo was a costly one, woven by hand, and out of the finest wool of
the vicuna, for that is the native country of this useful and curious
animal. Such a poncho would cost 20 pounds, and would not only keep out
cold, but would turn rain like a "macintosh." Don Pablo's hat was also
curious and costly. It was one of those known as "Panama," or
"Guayaquil,"--hats so called because they are manufactured by Indian
tribes who dwell upon the Pacific coast, and are made out of a rare
sea-grass, which is found near the above-mentioned places. A good
Guayaquil hat will cost 20 pounds; and although, with its broad curling
brim and low crown, it looks not much better than Leghorn or even fine
straw, yet it is far superior to either, both as a protection against
rain, or, what is of more importance in southern countries, against a
hot tropical sun. The best of them will wear half a lifetime. Don
Pablo's "sombrero" was one of the very best and costliest; and this,
combined with the style of his other habiliments, betokened that the
wearer was one of the "ricos," or higher class of his country.
The costume of his wife, who was a dark and very beautiful Spanish
woman, would have strengthened this idea. She wore a dress of black
silk with velvet bodice and sleeves, tastefully embroidered. A mantilla
of dark cloth covered her shoulders, and on her head was a low
broad-brimmed hat, similar to those usually worn by men, for a bonnet is
a thing unknown to the ladies of Spanish America. A single glance at
the Dona Isidora would have satisfied any one that she was a lady of
rank and refinement.
There were two children, upon which, from time to time, she gazed
tenderly. They were her only ones. They were a boy and girl, nearly of
equal size and age. The boy was the elder, perhaps thirteen or more, a
handsome lad, with swarth face, coal-black eyes, and curly full-flowing
dark hair. The girl, too, who would be about twelve, was dark--that is
to say, brunette in complexion. Her eyes were large, round, and dreamy,
with long lashes that kept the sun from shining into them, and thus
deepened their expression.
Perhaps there are no children in the world so beautiful as those of the
Spanish race. There is a smoothness of skin, a richness in colour, and
a noble "hidalgo" expression in their round black eyes that is rare in
other countries. Spanish women retain this expression to a good age.
The men lose it earlier, because, as I believe, they are oftener of
corrupted morals and habits; and these, long exercised, certainly stamp
their lines upon the face. Those which are mean, and low, and vicious,
produce a similar character of countenance, while those which are high,
and holy, and virtuous, give it an aspect of beauty and nobility.
Of all beautiful Spanish children none could have been more beautiful
than our two little Creole Spaniards, Leon and Leona--for such were the
names of the brother and sister.
There yet remains one to be described, ere we complete the account of
our travelling party. This one was a grown and tall man, quite as tall
as Don Pablo himself, but thinner and more angular in his outlines. His
coppery colour, his long straight black hair, his dark and wild piercing
eye, with his somewhat odd attire, told you at once he was of a
different race from any of the others. He was an Indian--a South
American Indian; and although a descendant from the noble race of the
Peruvian Incas, he was acting in the capacity of a servant or attendant
to Don Pablo and his family. There was a familiarity, however, between
the old Indian--for he was an old man--and Don Pablo, that bespoke the
existence of some tie of a stronger nature than that which exists
between master and servant. And such there was in reality. This Indian
had been one of the patriots who had rallied around Tupac Amaru in his
revolution against the Spaniards. He had been proscribed, captured, and
sentenced to death. He would have been executed, but for the
interference of Don Pablo, who had saved his life. Since then Guapo--
such was the Indian's name--had remained not only the retainer, but the
firm and faithful friend, of his benefactor.
Guapo's feet were sandalled. His legs were naked up to the knees,
showing many an old scar received from the cactus plants and the thorny
bushes of acacia, so common in the mountain-valleys of Peru. A
tunic-like skirt of woollen cloth,--that home-made sort called
"bayeta,"--was fastened around his waist, and reached down to the knees;
but the upper part of his body was quite bare, and you could see the
naked breast and arms, corded with strong muscles, and covered with a
skin of a dark copper colour. The upper part of his body was naked only
when the sun was hot. At other times Guapo wore a species of poncho
like his master, but that of the Indian was of common stuff--woven out
of the coarse wool of the llama. His head was bare.
Guapo's features were thin, sharp, and intelligent. His eye was keen
and piercing; and the gait of the old man, as he strode along the rocky
path, told that it would be many years before he would show any signs of
feebleness or tottering.
There were four animals that carried our travellers and their effects.
One was a horse ridden by the boy Leon. The second was a saddle mule,
on which rode Dona Isidora and Leona. The other two animals were not
mounted. They were beasts of burden, with "yerguas," or pack-saddles,
upon which were carried the few articles that belonged to the
travellers. They, were the camels of Peru--the far-famed llamas. Don
Pablo, with his faithful retainer, travelled afoot.
You will wonder that one apparently so rich, and on so distant a
journey, was not provided with animals enough to carry his whole party.
Another horse at least, or a mule, might have been expected in the
cavalcade. It would not have been strange had Guapo only walked--as he
was the arriero, or driver, of the llamas--but to see Don Pablo afoot
and evidently tired, with neither horse nor mule to ride upon, was
something that required explanation. There was another fact that
required explanation. The countenance of Don Pablo wore an anxious
expression, as if some danger impended; so did that of the lady, and the
children were silent, with their little hearts full of fear. They knew
not _what_ danger, but they knew that their father and mother were in
trouble. The Indian, too, had a serious look; and at each angle of the
mountain road he and Don Pablo would turn around, and with anxious eyes
gaze back in the direction that led towards Cuzco. As yet they could
distinguish the spires of the distant city, and the Catholic crosses, as
they glistened under the evening sunbeam. Why did they look back with
fear and distrust? Why? _Because Don Pablo was in flight, and feared
pursuers_! What? Had he committed some great crime? No. On the
contrary, he was the _victim of a noble virtue_--the virtue of
patriotism! For that had he been condemned, and was now in flight--
flying to save not only his liberty but his life! yes, _his life_; for
had the sentinels on those distant towers but recognised him, he would
soon have been followed and dragged back to an ignominious death.
Young reader, I am writing of things that occurred near the beginning of
the present century, and before the Spanish-American colonies became
free from the rule of Old Spain. You will remember that these countries
were then governed by viceroys, who represented the King of Spain, but
who in reality were quite as absolute as that monarch himself. The
great viceroys of Mexico and Peru held court in grand state, and lived
in the midst of barbaric pomp and luxury. The power of life and death
was in their hands, and in many instances they used it in the most
unjust and arbitrary manner. They were themselves, of course, natives
of Old Spain--often the pampered favourites of that corrupt court. All
the officials by which they were surrounded and served were, like
themselves, natives of Spain, or "Gachupinos," (as the Creoles used to
call them,) while the Creoles--no matter how rich, or learned, or
accomplished in any way--were excluded from every office of honour and
profit. They were treated by the Gachupinos with contempt and insult.
Hence for long long years before the great revolutions of Spanish
America, a strong feeling of dislike existed between Creole Spaniards
and Spaniards of Old Spain; and this feeling was quite independent of
that which either had towards the Indians--the aborigines of America.
This feeling brought about the revolution, which broke out in all the
countries of Spanish America (including Mexico) about the year 1810, and
which, after fifteen years of cruel and sanguinary fighting, led to the
independence of these countries.
Some people will tell you that they gained nothing by this independence,
as since that time so much war and anarchy have marked their history.
There is scarcely any subject upon which mankind thinks more
superficially, and judges more wrongly, than upon this very one. It is
a mistake to suppose that a people enjoys either peace or prosperity,
simply because it is quiet. There is quiet in Russia, but to its
millions of serfs war continuous and eternal; and the same may be said
of many other countries as well as Russia. To the poor slave, or even
to the over-taxed subject, peace is no peace, but a constant and
systematised struggle, often more pernicious in its effects than even
the anarchy of open war. A war of this kind numbers its slain by
millions, for the victims of famine are victims of _political crime_ on
the part of a nation's rulers. I have no time now to talk of these
things. Perhaps, boy reader, you and I may meet on this ground again,
and at no very distant period.
Well, it was not in the general rising of 1810 that Don Pablo had been
compromised, but previous to that. The influence of the European
Revolution of 1798 was felt even in distant Spanish America, and several
ebullitions occurred in different parts of that country at the same
time. They were premature; they were crushed. Those who had taken part
in them were hunted to the death. Death! death! was the war-cry of the
Spanish hirelings, and bitterly did they execute their vengeance on all
who were compromised. Don Pablo would have been a victim among others,
had he not had timely warning and escaped; but as it was, all his
property was taken by confiscation, and became the plunder of the
rapacious tyrant.
We are introduced to him just at the period of his escape. By the aid
of the faithful Guapo he had hastily collected a few things, and with
his wife and family fled in the night. Hence the incompleteness of his
travelling equipage. He had taken one of the most unfrequented paths--a
mere bridle-road--that led from Cuzco eastward over the Cordillera. His
intent was to gain the eastern slope of the Andes mountains, where he
might conceal himself for a time in the uninhabited woods of the Great
_Montana_, and towards this point was he journeying. By a _ruse_ he had
succeeded in putting the soldiers of the despot on a false track; but it
was not certain that they might not yet fall into the true one. No
wonder then, when he gazed back towards Cuzco, that his look was one of
apprehension and anxiety.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE POISON-TREES.
Following the rugged and winding path, the travellers had climbed to a
height of many thousand feet above the ocean level. There was very
little vegetation around them. Nothing that deserved the name of tree,
if we except a few stunted specimens of quenoa trees (_Polylepis
racemosa_), and here and there patches of the Ratanhia shrub
(_Krameria_), which covered the hill-sides. Both these are used by the
mountain Indians as fuel, but the Ratanhia is also a favourite remedy
against dysentery and blood-spitting. Its extract is even exported to
European countries, and is to be found in the shop of the apothecary.
Now and then a beautiful species of locust was seen with its bright red
flowers. It was the "Sangre de Christo" of the Peruvian _flora_.
Don Pablo Romero was a naturalist, and I may here tell you a pleasant
and interesting fact--which is, that many of the earliest patriots and
revolutionists of Spanish America were men who had distinguished
themselves in natural science--in fact, were the "savans" of these
countries. I call this a pleasant fact, and you may deem it a curious
one too, because men of science are usually lovers of peace, and not
accustomed to meddle either in war or politics. But the truth of the
matter is this,--under the government of the viceroys all books, except
those of a monkish religion, were jealously excluded from these
countries. No political work whatever was permitted to be introduced;
and the people were kept in the grossest ignorance of their natural
rights. It was only into learned institutions that a glimmering of the
light of freedom found its way, and it was amongst the professors of
these institutions that the "rights of men" first began to be discussed.
Many of these noble patriots were the first victims offered up on the
altar of Spanish-American independence.
Don Pablo, I have said, was a naturalist; and it was perhaps the first
journey he had ever made without observing attentively the natural
objects that presented themselves along his route. But his mind was
busy with other cares; and he heeded neither the _fauna_ nor _flora_.
He thought only of his loved wife and dear children, of the dangers to
which he and they were exposed. He thought only of increasing the
distance between them and his vengeful enemies. During that day they
had made a toilsome journey of fifteen miles, up the mountain--a long
journey for the llamas, who rarely travel more than ten or twelve; but
the dumb brutes seemed to exert themselves as if they knew that danger
threatened those who guided them. They belonged to Guapo, who had not
been a mere servant, but a cultivator, and had held a small "chacra," or
farm, under Don Pablo. Guapo's voice was well known to the creatures,
and his "hist!" of encouragement urged them on. But fifteen miles was
an unusual journey, and the animals began to show symptoms of fatigue.
Their humming noise, which bears some resemblance to the tones of an
Eolian harp, boomed loud at intervals as the creatures came to a stop;
and then the voice of Guapo could be heard urging them forward.
The road led up a defile, which was nothing more than the bed of a
mountain-torrent, now dry. For a long distance there was no spot of
level ground where our travellers could have encamped, even had they
desired to stop. At length, however, the path led out of the
torrent-bed, and they found themselves on a small ledge, or table,
covered with low trees. These trees were of a peculiar kind, very
common in all parts of the Andes, and known as _molle_ trees. They are
more properly bushes than trees, being only about ten or twelve feet in
height. They have long delicate pinnate leaves, very like those of the
acacia, and, when in fruit, they are thickly covered with clusters of
small bright red berries. These berries are used among some tribes of
Indians for making a highly valuable and medicinal beer; but the wood of
the tree is of more importance to the people of those parts as an
article of fuel, because the tree grows where other wood is scarce. It
is even considered by the sugar-refiners as the best for their purpose,
since its ashes, possessing highly alkaline properties, are more
efficient than any other in purifying the boiling juice of the
sugar-cane. The leaves of this beautiful tree, when pressed, emit a
strong aromatic smell; and a very curious property ascribed to it by the
more ignorant people of the mountains will be illustrated by the
dialogue which follows:--
"Let us pass the night here," said Don Pablo, halting, and addressing
himself to Guapo. "This level spot will serve us to encamp. We can
sleep under the shade of the bushes."
"What! _mi amo_! (my master) Here?" replied the Indian, with a gesture
of surprise.
"And why not here? Can any place be better? If we again enter the
defile we may find no other level spot. See! the llamas will go no
farther. We must remain therefore."
"But, master," continued Guapo--"see!"
"See what?"
"The trees, master!"
"Well, what of the trees? Their shade will serve to screen us from the
night dew. We can sleep under them."
"Impossible, master--_they are poison trees_!"
"You are talking foolishly, Guapo. These are _molle_ trees."
"I know it, senor; but they are poison. If we sleep under them we shall
not awake in the morning--we shall awake no more."
And Guapo, as he uttered these words, looked horrified.
"This is nonsense; you are superstitious, old man. We must abide here.
See, the llamas have lain down. They will not move hence, I warrant."
Guapo turned to the llamas, and thinking that their movements might
influence the decision of his master, began to urge them in his
accustomed way. But it is a peculiarity of these creatures not to stir
one step beyond what they consider a proper journey. Even when the load
is above that which they are accustomed to carry--that is to say, 120
pounds--neither voice nor whip will move them. They may be goaded to
death, but will not yield, and coaxing has a like effect. Both knew
that they had done their day's work; and the voice, the gesticulations
and blows of Guapo, were all in vain. Neither would obey him any
longer. The Indian saw this, and reluctantly consented to remain; at
the same time he continued to repeat his belief that they would all most
certainly perish in the night. For himself, he expressed his intention
to climb a ledge, and sleep upon the naked rocks; and he earnestly
entreated the others to follow his example.
Don Pablo listened to the admonitions of his retainer with incredulity,
though not with any degree of disdain. He knew the devotedness of the
old Indian, and therefore treated, what he considered a more
superstition, with a show of respect. But he felt an inclination to
cure Guapo of the folly of such a belief; and was, on this account, the
more inclined to put his original design into execution. To pass the
night under the shade of the molle trees was, therefore, determined
upon.
All dismounted. The llamas were unloaded; their packs, or _yerguas_,
taken off; the horse and mule were unsaddled; and all were permitted to
browse over the little space which the ledge afforded. They were all
trained animals. There was no fear of any of them straying.
The next thing was to prepare supper. All were hungry, as none of the
party had eaten since morning. In the hurry of flight, they had made no
provision for an extended journey. A few pieces of _charqui_ (jerked or
dried beef) had been brought along; and, in passing near a field of
"oca," Guapo had gathered a bunch of the roots, and placed them on the
back of his llama. This oca is a tuberous root (_Oxalis tuberosa_), of
an oval shape and pale red colour, but white inside. It resembles very
much the Jerusalem artichoke, but it is longer and slimmer. Its taste
is very agreeable and sweetish--somewhat like that of pumpkins, and it
is equally good when roasted or boiled. There is another sort of
tuberous root (_Tropaeolum tuberosum_), called "ulluca" by the
Peruvians, which is more glutinous and less pleasant to the taste. This
kind is various in form, being either round, oblong, straight, or
curved, and of a reddish, yellow colour outside, though green within.
It is insipid when boiled with water, but excellent when dressed with
Spanish peppers (_Capsicum_). Out of the _oca_, then, and _charqui_,
the supper must be made; and for the purpose of cooking it, a fire must
be kindled with the wood of the molle.
For a long time there was a doubt about whether it would be safe to
kindle this fire. The sun had not yet gone down, and the smoke might
attract observation from the valley below. If the pursuers were on
their track, it might be noticed; as upon this lonely route a fire would
indicate nothing else than the camp of some one on a journey. But the
stomachs of our travellers cried for food, and it was at length resolved
to light the fire, but not until after sunset, when the smoke could be
no longer seen, and the blaze would be hidden behind the thick bushes of
molle.
Don Pablo walked off from the camp, and wandered among the trees to see
if he could find something that might contribute a little variety to
their simple supper. A small, broom-like plant, that grew among the
molle trees, soon attracted his attention. This was the _quinoa_ plant
(_Chenopodium quinoa_), which produces a seed, not unlike rice, though
smaller in the grain, whence it has received in commerce the name "petty
rice." The quinoa seeds, when boiled, are both pleasant and nutritious,
but especially so when boiled in milk. Previous to the discovery of
America, "quinoa" was an article of food, supplying the place of wheat.
It was much used by the natives, and is still collected for food in many
parts. Indeed, it has been introduced into some European countries, and
cultivated with success. The leaves, when young, can be used as
spinach, but the seeds are the most sought after for food.
Don Pablo having called Leon to assist him, a quantity of the seeds were
soon collected into a vessel, and carried to the place which they had
chosen for their camp; and, as it was now dark enough, the fire was
kindled and the cooking-pot got ready. The Dona Isidora, although a
fine lady, was one of those who had all her life been accustomed to look
after her household affairs: and this, it may be remarked, is a somewhat
rare virtue among the Peruvian ladies, who are generally too much given
to dress and idleness. It was not so, however, with the wife of Don
Pablo. She knew how to look after the affairs of the _cuisine_, and
could dress any of the peculiar dishes of the country with the best of
cooks. In a short while, therefore, an excellent supper was ready, of
which all ate heartily, and then, wrapping themselves up in their
ponchos, lay down to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE SUPPER OF GUAPO.
I have said all ate of the supper. This is not strictly true. One of
the party did not touch it, and that was old Guapo. Why? Was he not
hungry like the rest? Yes; as hungry as any of them. Why then did he
not eat of the _charqui_ and ocas? Simply because Guapo had a supper of
a very different kind, which he carried in his pouch, and which he liked
much better than the charqui stew. What was it? It was "coca."
"Chocolate," you will say, or, as some call it, "cocoa," which should be
called, to name it properly, "cacao." No, I answer--it was not
chocolate, nor cocoa, nor cacao neither.
"It must have been cocoa-nuts, then?" No; nor yet cocoa-nuts. The
"coca," upon which Guapo made his supper, and which contented his
stomach perfectly for the night, was an article very different from
either the cacao which makes chocolate, or the nut of the cocoa-palm.
You are now impatient to hear what sort of thing it was, and I shall
tell you at once.
The coca is a small tree or shrub about six feet in height, which grows
in the warmer valleys among the Andes mountains. Its botanical name is
_Erythroxylon coca_. Its leaves are small and of a bright green colour,
and its blossoms white. Its fruits are very small scarlet berries. It
is a native plant, and, therefore, found in a wild state; but it is
cultivated by the planters of these countries in fields regularly laid
out, and hence called "cocales." This plant is raised from the seed,
and when the young shoots have attained the height of about eighteen
inches, they are transplanted and put down again at the distance of
about a foot apart from each other. Now as these little bushes require
a humid atmosphere, maize-plants are sown between the rows to protect
them from the sun. In other places arbours of palm-leaves are
constructed over the coca-plants. When no rain falls, they are watered
every five or six days. After about two and a half years of this
nursing, the coca-bush is ready for use, and it is the leaves alone that
are valuable. These are gathered with great care, just as the Chinese
gather the leaves of the tea-plant; and, as in China, women are
principally employed in this labour. The leaves are said to be ripe,
not when they have withered and turned brown, but at a period when they
are full-grown and become brittle. When this period arrives, they are
picked from the tree, and laid out on coarse woollen cloths to dry in
the sun. When dried, they remain of a pale green colour; but should
they get damp during the process, they become darker, and are then of
inferior quality, and sell for a less price. When fully dried, they are
carefully packed in bags and covered up with dry sand, and are thus
ready for the market. Their price, on the spot where the crop is
produced, is about one shilling English per pound. They are, therefore,
full as costly to produce as tea itself, although the coca-bush will
yield three crops of leaves in one year--that is, a crop every four
months; and one hundred plants will produce about an arroba (25 pounds)
at a crop. The coca-plant will continue to give fresh leaves for a long
period of years, unless attacked and destroyed by ants, which is not
unfrequently the case.
Now, why have I so minutely described the coca-bush? Because, that, in
the economy of the life of those Indians who inhabit the countries of
the Andes mountains, this curious plant plays a most important part.
Scarcely one of these people is to be met with who is not an eater of
coca--a "coquero." With them it is what the tea-tree is to the Chinese.
Indeed, it is a curious fact, that in all parts of the world some
stimulating vegetable is used by the human race. Tea in China; the
betel-leaf, and the nut of the areca palm, among the Southern Asiatics;
the poppy in the East; with tobacco, and many like things, in other
countries.
But the coca not only supplies the Indian with a solace to his cares, it
forms the chief article of his food. With a supply of coca, an Indian
will support himself five or six days without eating anything else. The
poor miners, in the Peruvian mines, are all "coqueros;" and it is
alleged that, without coca, they would be unable to undergo the painful
toil to which their calling subjects them. When used to excess, the
coca produces deleterious effects on the human system; but, if
moderately taken, it is far more innocent in its results than either
opium or tobacco.
The coca-leaf is not eaten alone. A certain preparation is necessary,
and another substance is mixed with it before it produces the proper
effect. But let us watch the movements of Guapo, and we shall see how
he does it, for Guapo is a confirmed coquero.
Guapo, true to his promise, does not sleep under the molle trees. He
leaves the party, and, with a melancholy air, has climbed up and seated
himself upon a projecting rock, where he intends to pass the night. His
last glance at Don Pablo and his family was one of foreboding. He had
again remonstrated with his master, but to no purpose. The latter only
laughed at the earnestness of the old Indian, and told him to go to his
perch and leave the party to themselves.
It was still grey light when Guapo climbed up to the rock. Against the
sky his tall, lank form could be traced in all its outlines. For some
moments he sat in a serious and reflective mood--evidently busy with
thoughts about the "poison-trees." His appetite, however, soon got the
better of him; and he set to work to prepare his coca supper. It was a
simple operation.
Around Guapo's neck there hung a small pouch made of the skin of the
chinchilla, which beautiful little animal is a native of these parts.
This pouch contained a quantity of the dry leaves of the coca. Having
taken out some half-dozen of these leaves, he put them into his mouth
and commenced chewing them. In a short while, by the aid of tongue,
teeth, and lips, they were formed into a little ball of pulp, that
rolled about in his mouth. Another step in the process now became
necessary. A small gourd, that hung around Guapo's neck by a thong, was
laid hold of. This was corked with a wooden stopper, in which stopper a
wire pin was fixed, long enough to reach down to the bottom of the
gourd. After taking out the stopper, Guapo applied the lower part of
the pin to his lips, and then, plunging it once more into the gourd,
drew it out again. This time the pin came out, with a fine whitish
powder adhering to the part that had been wetted. Now what was this
powder? It was nothing else than lime that had been burned, and then
pulverised. Perhaps it was the ashes of the molle tree, of which we
have already spoken, and which, as we have said, possess a highly
alkaline property. The ashes of the musa, or plantain, are sometimes
used; but, after all, it is most likely that it was the molle ashes
which Guapo carried, for these are most highly esteemed by the Indians
of Southern Peru; and Guapo was a connoisseur in coca-eating. Whichever
of the three it was--lime, molle, or musa--Guapo carried the pin to his
mouth, and, without touching his lips (it would have burnt him if he
had), he inserted it, so as to penetrate the ball of chewed coca-leaves
that rested upon the tip of his tongue. This was stabbed repeatedly and
adroitly by the pin, until all the powder remained in the coca-ball; and
then the pin was withdrawn, wiped, and restored to its place, along with
the stopper of the gourd.
Guapo now remained quietly "ruminating" for a period of about forty
minutes--for this is about the time required for chewing a mess of
coca-leaves. Indeed, so exactly is this time observed, that the
Indians, when travelling, measure distances by it; and one "coceada" is
about equal to the time occupied in walking a couple of English miles.
The coceada of our old Indian being finished, he drew his llama-wool
poncho around him; and, leaning back against the rock, was soon buried
in a profound slumber.
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE PUNA.
By early dawn Guapo was awake, but he did not immediately awake the
others. It was still too dark to follow the mountain road. His first
care was to have his coca breakfast, and to this he applied himself at
once.
Day was fairly broke when he had ended the process of mastication, and
he bethought him of descending from the rock to arouse the sleepers. He
knew they still slept, as no voice had yet issued from the grove of
molles. The mule and horse were heard cropping the grass, and the
llamas were now feeding upon an open spot,--the first they had eaten
since their halt, as these creatures do not browse in the night.
Guapo descended with fear in his heart. How it would have joyed him to
hear the voice of his master, or of any of them! But, no. Not a sound
proceeded from any one of the party. He stole nimbly along the ledge,
making his way through the molle trees. At length he reached the spot.
All asleep?--yes, all! "Are they dead?" thought Guapo, and his heart
beat with anxiety. Indeed, they seemed so. The fatigue of travel had
cast a sickly paleness over the faces of all, and one might easily have
fancied they no longer lived. But they breathed. "Yes, they breathe!"
ejaculated the old Indian, half aloud. "They live!" Guapo bent down,
and seizing Don Pablo by the arm, shook him--at first gently, uttering,
at the same time, some words to awake him. But neither the shaking nor
the voice had any effect. Guapo shook more violently, and shouted
louder. Still Don Pablo slept. None of the others moved--none of them
heard him. It was strange, for the Indian knew that Don Pablo himself,
as well as the others, were easily awaked on ordinary occasions. Guapo,
becoming alarmed, now raised his voice to its loudest pitch, at the same
time dragging Don Pablo's shoulder in a still more violent manner. This
had the desired effect. The sleeper awoke, but so slowly, and evidently
with such exertion, that there was something mysterious in it.
"What is it?" he inquired, with half-opened eyes. "Is it morning
already?"
"The sun is up. Rouse, my master! It is time we were on the road,"
replied the Indian.
"I feel very drowsy--I am heavy--I can scarce keep my eyes open. What
can be the cause of this?"
"The poison-trees, master," answered Guapo.
The answer seemed to impress Don Pablo. He made a violent effort, and
rose to his feet. When up he could scarcely stand. He felt as though
he had swallowed a powerful opiate.
"It must be so, good Guapo. Perhaps there is some truth in what you
have said. O, heavens!" exclaimed he, suddenly recollecting
himself,--"the others--my wife and children!"
This thought had fully awakened Don Pablo; and Guapo and he proceeded at
once to arouse the others, which they effected after much shouting and
shaking. All were still heavy with sleep, and felt as did Don Pablo
himself.
"Surely there is some narcotic power in the aroma of these trees,"
muttered Don Pablo. "Come, wife, let us be gone! We must remain under
its influence no longer, else what Guapo has said may prove too true.
Saddle up--we must eat our breakfasts farther on. To the road!--to the
road!"
Guapo soon had the horses ready, and all hurried from the spot, and were
once more climbing up the mountain-path. Even the animals seemed to
move slowly and lazily, as though they, too, had been under the
influence of some soporific. But the pure cold air of the mountain soon
produced its effect. All gradually recovered, and after cooking some
_charqui_ and ocas in the ravine, and making their breakfast upon these,
they again felt light and fresh, and pursued their journey with renewed
vigour.
The road kept on up the ravine, and in some places the banks rose almost
perpendicularly from the bed of the dry torrent, presenting on both
sides vast walls of black porphyry--for this is the principal rock
composing the giant chain of the Andes. Above their heads screamed
small parrots of rich plumage of the species _Conurus rupicola_, which
make their nestling places, and dwell upon these rocky cliffs. This is
a singular fact, as all other parrots known are dwellers among trees and
are found in the forest at all times, except when on their passage from
place to place. But even the squirrel, which is an animal peculiarly
delighting in tree-life, has its representative in several species of
ground-squirrels, that never ascend a tree; and, among the monkeys,
there exists the troglodyte or cave-dwelling chimpanzee. No doubt
squirrels or monkeys of any kind, transported to an open or treeless
country, would soon habituate themselves to their new situation,--for
Nature affords many illustrations of this power of adaptation on the
part of her creatures.
It was near sunset when our travellers reached the highest point of
their route, nearly 14,000 feet above the level of the sea! Here they
emerged upon an open plain which stretched far before them. Above this
plain towered mountains of all shapes to a height of many thousand feet
from the level of the plain itself. Some of these mountains carried
their covering of eternal snow, which, as the evening sun glanced upon
it, exhibited the most beautiful tints of rose, and purple, and gold.
The plain looked bleak and barren, and the cold which our travellers now
felt added to the desolateness of the scene. No trees were in sight.
Dry yellow grass covered the ground, and the rocks stood out naked and
shaggy. They had reached one of those elevated tables of the Andes
known as the _Puna_.
These singular tracts elevated above the level of cultivation are almost
uninhabited. Their only inhabitants are a few poor Indians, who are
employed by the rich proprietors of the lower valleys as shepherds; for
upon these cold uplands thrive sheep, and cattle, and llamas, and flocks
of the wool-bearing alpaco. Through this wild region, however, you may
travel for days without encountering even a single one of the wretched
and isolated inhabitants who watch over these flocks and herds.