and then began to go downward. They had crossed the last ridge of the
Andes, and were now descending the eastern slopes. Another day's
journey, or two at most, would bring them to the borders of that wild
forest, which stretches from the foot-hills of the Andes to the shores
of the Atlantic Ocean--that forest with scarcely a civilised settlement
throughout all its wide extent--where no roads exist--whose only paths
are rivers--whose dark jungles are in places so impenetrable that the
Indian cannot enter them, and even the fierce jaguar, embarrassed by the
thick underwood, has to take to the tree-tops in pursuit of his prey.
Another day's journey or so would bring them to the borders of the
"Montana"--for such is the name which, by a strange misapplication of
terms, has been given to this primeval wood. Yes, the Montana was
before them, and although yet distant, it could now and then be seen as
the road wound among the rocks, stretching far towards the sky like a
green and misty ocean.
In that almost boundless region there dwelt none but the aborigines of
the soil--the wild Indians--and these only in sparse and distant bands.
Even the Spaniards in their day of glory had failed to conquer it; and
the Portuguese from the other side were not more successful. Here and
there a lone missionary attempted to wheedle the simple natives into a
belief in his monkish religion, or when able to do so _forced it upon
them_, by fire and sword! But most of these efforts, both of conquest
and conversion, had failed; and now, with the exception of some isolated
trading post, or decayed mission station, on the banks of the great
rivers, the whole "Montana" was as wild and savage as when the keels of
Columbus first ploughed the waters of the Carib Sea.
The Spanish colonists, on the Peruvian or western border of this immense
forest, had never been able to penetrate it as colonists or settlers.
Expeditions from time to time had passed along its rivers in search of
the fabled gold country of _Manoa_, whose king each morning gave himself
a coating of gold dust, and was hence called El Dorado (the gilded); but
all these expeditions ended in mortification and defeat. The
settlements never extended beyond the _sierras_, or foot-hills of the
Andes, which stretch only a few days' journey (in some places but a
score of leagues) from the populous cities on the mountain-heights.
Even at this present time, if you travel thirty leagues eastward of the
large town of Cuzco, in the direction taken by Don Pablo, you will pass
the boundaries of civilisation, and enter a country unexplored and
altogether unknown to the people of Cuzco themselves! About the
"Montana" very little is known in the settlements of the Andes. Fierce
tribes of Indians, the jaguar, the vampire bat, swarms of mosquitoes,
and the hot atmosphere, have kept the settler, as well as the curious
traveller, out of these wooded plains.
Don Pablo had already passed the outskirts of civilisation. Any
settlement he might find beyond would be the hut of some half-wild
Indian. There was no fear of his encountering a white face upon the
unfrequented path he had chosen, though had he gone by some other route
he might have found white settlements extending farther to the eastward.
As it was, the wilderness lay before him, and he would soon enter it.
_And what was he to do in the wilderness_? He knew not. He had never
reflected on that. He only knew that behind him was a relentless foe
thirsting for his life. To go back was to march to certain death. He
had no thoughts of returning. That would have been madness. His
property was already confiscated--his death decreed by the vengeful
Viceroy, whose soldiers had orders to capture or slay, wherever they
should find him. His only hope, then, was to escape beyond the borders
of civilisation--to hide himself in the great Montana. Beyond this he
had formed no plan. He had scarcely thought about the future. Forward,
then, for the Montana!
The road which our travellers followed was nothing more than a narrow
path, or "trail" formed by cattle, or by some party of Indians
occasionally passing up from the lower valleys to the mountain-heights.
It lay along the edge of a torrent that leaped and foamed over its rocky
bed. The torrent was no doubt on its way to join the greatest of
rivers, the mighty Amazon--the headwaters of which spring from all parts
of the Andes, draining the slopes of these mountains through more than
twenty degrees of latitude!
Towards evening the little party were beginning to enter among the
mountain spurs, or foot-hills. Here the travelling grew exceedingly
difficult, the path sometimes running up a steep acclivity and then
descending into deep ravines--so deep and dark that the sun's rays
seemed hardly to enter them. The road was what Spanish-Americans term,
"_Cuesta arriba, cuesta abajo_" (up hill, down hill).
In no part of the world are such roads to be met with as among the Andes
Mountains, both in South America and in their Mexican continuation
through the northern division of the continent. This arises from the
peculiar geological structure of these mountains. Vast clefts traverse
them, yawning far into the earth. In South America these are called
_quebradas_. You may stand on the edge of one of them and look sheer
down a precipice two thousand feet! You may fancy a whole mountain
scooped out and carried away, and yet you may have to reach the bottom
of this yawning gulf by a road which seems cut out of the face of the
cliff, or rather has been formed by a freak of Nature--for in these
countries the hand of man has done but little for the roads. Sometimes
the path traverses a ledge so narrow that scarce room is found for the
feet of your trusty mule. Sometimes a hanging bridge has to be crossed,
spanning a horrid chasm, at the bottom of which roars a foaming
torrent--the bridge itself, composed of ropes and brambles, all the
while swinging like a hammock under the tread of the affrighted
traveller!
He who journeys through the tame scenery of European countries can form
but little idea of the wild and dangerous highways of the Andes. Even
the passes of the Alps or Carpathians are safe in comparison. On the
Peruvian road the lives of men and animals are often sacrificed. Mules
slide from the narrow ledges, or break through the frail "soga" bridges,
carrying their riders along with them, whirling through empty air to be
plunged into foaming waters or dashed on sharp rocks below. These are
accidents of continual occurrence; and yet, on account of the apathy of
the Spano-Indian races that inhabit these countries, little is done for
either roads or bridges. Every one is left to take care of himself, and
get over them as he best may. It is only now and then that positive
necessity prompts to a great effort, and then a road is repaired or a
broken bridge patched with new ropes.
But the road that was travelled by Don Pablo had seen no repairs--there
were no bridges. It was, in fact, a mere pathway where the traveller
scrambled over rocks, or plunged into the stream, and forded or swam
across it as he best could. Sometimes it lay along the water's edge,
keeping in the bottom of the ravine; at other places no space was left
by the water, and then the path ascended and ran along some ledge
perhaps for miles, at the end of which it would again descend to the bed
of the stream.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
ENCOUNTER UPON A CLIFF.
That night they encamped in the bottom of the ravine close to the
water's edge. They found just enough of level ground to enable them to
stretch themselves, but they were contented with that. There was
nothing for the animals to eat except the succulent, but thorny, leaves
of the _Cactus opuntia_, or the more fibrous blades of the wild agave.
This evening there were no quinoa seeds to be had, for none of these
trees grew near. Even the botanist, Don Pablo, could find no vegetable
substance that was eatable, and they would have to sup upon the vicuna
meat, without bread, potatoes, or other vegetables. Their stock of
ocas, ullucas, and macas, was quite out. They had cooked the last of
the macas for that morning's meal.
Guapo here came to their relief. Guapo's experience went beyond the
theoretical knowledge of the botanist. Guapo knew a vegetable which was
good to eat--in fact, a most delicious vegetable when cooked with meat.
This was no other than the fleshy heart of the wild maguey (_agave_),
with part of the adhering roots. Among naked rocks, in the most barren
parts of the desert wilderness, the wild agave may be found growing in
luxuriance. Its thick, succulent blades, when split open, exude a cool
liquid, that often gives considerable relief to the thirsty traveller;
while the heart, or egg-shaped nucleus from which spring the sheathing
leaves--and even parts of the leaves themselves--when cooked with any
sort of meat, become an excellent and nourishing food. The Indians make
this use of the aloe on the high plains of Northern Mexico, among the
roving bands of the Apache, Navajo, and Comanche. These people cook
them along with horse's flesh, for there the wild horse is the principal
food of whole tribes. Their mode of cooking, both the flesh and the
aloe, is by baking them together in little ovens of stones sunk in the
ground, and then heated by fire until they are nearly red-hot. The
ashes are then cleared out, the meat and vegetables placed in the ovens,
and then buried until both are sufficiently done. In fact, there is one
tribe of the Apaches who have obtained the name of "Mezcaleros," from
the fact of their eating the wild aloe, which in those countries goes
under the name of "mezcal" plant.
In many parts of the Andes, where the soil is barren, the wild maguey is
almost the only vegetation to be seen, and in such places the Indians
use it as food. It seems to be a gift of Nature to the desert, so that
even there man may find something on which to subsist.
Guapo with his knife had soon cleared off several large pieces of the
maguey, and these, fried along with the vicuna meat, enabled the party
to make a supper sufficiently palatable. A cup of pure water from the
cold mountain stream, sweeter than all the wine in the world, washed it
down; and they went to rest with hearts full of contentment and
gratitude.
They rose at an early hour, and, breakfasting as they had supped, once
more took the road.
After travelling a mile or two, the path gradually ascended along one of
those narrow ledges that shelve out from the cliff, of which we have
already spoken. They soon found themselves hundreds of feet above the
bed of the torrent, yet still hundreds of feet above them rose the wall
of dark porphyry, seamed, and scarred, and frowning. The ledge or path
was of unequal breadth--here and there forming little tables or
platforms. At other places, however, it was so narrow that those who
were mounted could look over the brink of the precipice into the
frothing water below--so narrow that no two animals could have passed
each other. These terrible passes were sometimes more than an hundred
yards in length, and not straight, but winding around buttresses of the
rock, so that one end was not visible from the other.
On frequented roads, where such places occur, it is usual for
travellers, entering upon them, to shout, so that any one, who chances
to be coming from the opposite side, may have warning and halt.
Sometimes this warning is neglected, and two trains of mules or llamas
meet upon the ledge! Then there is a terrible scene--the drivers
quarrel--one party has to submit--their animals have to be unloaded and
dragged back by the heels to some wider part of the path, so that each
party can get past in its turn!
Near the highest part of the road, our travellers had entered upon one
of these narrow ledges, and were proceeding along it with caution. The
trusty mule, that carried Dona Isidora and Leona, was in front, the
horse followed, and then the llamas. It is safer to ride than walk on
such occasions, especially upon mules, for these animals are more
sure-footed than the traveller himself. The horse that carried Leon,
however, was as safe as any mule. He was one of the small
Spanish-American breed, almost as sure-footed as a chamois.
The torrent rushed and thundered beneath. It was fearful to listen and
look downward; the heads of all were giddy, and their hearts full of
fear. Guapo, alone accustomed to such dangers, was of steady nerve. He
and Don Pablo afoot were in the rear.
They had neared the highest point of the road, where a jutting rock hid
all beyond from their view. They were already within a few paces of
this rock, when the mule--which, as we have stated, was in the front--
suddenly stopped, showing such symptoms of terror that Dona Isidora and
the little Leona both shrieked!
Of course all the rest came to a halt behind the terrified and trembling
mule. Don Pablo, from behind, shouted out, inquiring the cause of the
alarm; but before any answer could be given the cause became apparent to
all. Around the rock suddenly appeared the head and horns of a fierce
bull, and the next moment his whole body had come into view, while
another pair of horns and another head were seen close behind him!
It would be difficult to describe the feelings of our travellers at that
moment. The bull came on with a determined and sullen look, until he
stood nearly head to head with the mule. The smoke of his wide steaming
nostrils was mingled with the breath of the terrified mule, and he held
his head downward, and evidently with the intention of rushing forward
upon the latter. Neither could have gone back, and of course the fierce
bull would drive the mule into the abyss. The other bull stood close
behind, ready to continue the work if the first one failed, and,
perhaps, there were many others behind!
The mule was sensible of her danger, and, planting her hoofs firmly on
the hard rock, she clung closely to the precipice. But this would not
have served her, had not a hand interposed in her behalf. Amidst the
terrified cries of the children, the voice of Guapo was heard calling to
Don Pablo,--"Your pistols, master! give me your pistols!"
Something glided quickly among the legs of the animals. It was the
lithe body of the Indian. In a second's time he appeared in front of
the mule. The bull was just lowering his head to charge forward--his
horns were set--the foam fell from his lips--and his eyes glanced fire
out of their dark orbs. Before he could make the rush, there came the
loud report of a pistol--a cloud of sulphury smoke--a short struggle on
the cliff--and then a dead plunge in the torrent below!
The smoke partially cleared away; then came another crack--another
cloud--another short struggle--and another distant plash in the water!
The smoke cleared away a second time. The two bulls were no longer to
be seen!
Guapo, in front of the mule, now ran forward upon the ledge, and looked
round the buttress of rock. Then, turning suddenly, he waved his hand,
and shouted back--
"No more, master; you may come on--the road is clear!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
THE LONE CROSS IN THE FOREST.
After two more days of fatiguing travel, the road parted from the bank
of the river, and ran along the ridge of a high mountain spur in a
direction at right angles to that of the Andes themselves. This spur
continued for several miles, and then ended abruptly. At the point
where it ended, the path, which for the whole of the day had been
scarcely traceable, also came to an end. They were now of course in a
forest-covered country--in the _Ceja de la Montana_--that is, the forest
that covers the foot-hills of the mountains. The forest of the plains,
which were yet lower down, is known as the "Montana" proper.
During that day they had found the road in several places choked up with
underwood, and Guapo had to clear it with his _machete_--a sort of
half-sword, half-knife, used throughout all Spanish America, partly to
cut brushwood and partly as a weapon of defence. Where the ridge ended,
however, what had once been a road was now entirely overgrown--vines and
llianas of large size crossed the path. Evidently no one had passed for
years. A road existed no longer; the luxuriant vegetation had effaced
it.
This is no unusual thing on the borders of the Montana. Many a
settlement had existed there in former times, and had been abandoned.
No doubt the road they had been following once led to some such
settlement that had long since fallen into ruin.
It is a melancholy fact that the Spanish-Americans--including the
Mexican nation--have been retrograding for the last hundred years.
Settlements which they have made, and even large cities built by them,
are now deserted and in ruins; and extensive tracts of country, once
occupied by them, have become uninhabited, and have gone back to a state
of nature. Whole provinces, conquered and peopled by the followers of
Cortez and Pizarro, have within the last fifty years been retaken from
them _by the Indians_: and it would be very easy to prove, that had the
descendants of the Spanish conquerors been left to themselves, another
half century would have seen them driven from that very continent which
their forefathers so easily conquered and so cruelly kept. This
reconquest on the part of the Indian races was going on in a wholesale
way in the northern provinces of Mexico. But it is now interrupted by
the approach of another and stronger race from the East--the
Anglo-American.
To return to our travellers. Don Pablo was not surprised that the road
had run out. He had been expecting this for miles back. What was to be
done? Of course they must halt for that night at least. Indeed it was
already near camping-time. The sun was low in the sky, and the animals
were all much jaded. The llamas could not have gone much farther. They
looked as if they should never go farther. The heat of the climate--it
had been getting warmer every hour--was too much for them. These
animals, whose native home is among the high cool mountain valleys, as
already observed, cannot live in the low tropical plains. Even as they
descended the Sierras they had shown symptoms of suffering from the heat
during all that day. Their strength was now fairly exhausted.
The party halted. A little open space was chosen for the camp. The
animals were relieved of their burdens and tied to the trees, lest they
might stray off and be lost in the thick woods. A fire was kindled, and
part of the vicuna meat cooked for supper.
It was not yet night when they had finished eating, and all were seated
on the ground. The countenance of the father was clouded with a
melancholy expression. Dona Isidora sat by his side and tried to cheer
him, endeavouring to force a smile into her large black eyes. The
little Leona, with her head resting on her mother's lap, overcome with
the heat and fatigue, had fallen asleep. Leon, seeing the dejected look
of his father, was silent and thoughtful. Guapo was busy with his
llamas.
"Come, dear husband!" said the lady, trying to assume a cheerful tone,
"do not be so sad. We are now safe. Surely they will never pursue us
here."
"They may not," mechanically replied Don Pablo; "but what then? We have
escaped death, for what purpose? Either to live like savages in these
wild woods--perhaps to be killed by savages--perhaps to die of hunger!"
"Do not say so, Don Pablo. I have never heard that the Indians of these
parts were cruel. They will not injure poor harmless people such as we
are. And as for starving, are not these luxuriant woods filled with
roots and fruits that will sustain life a long while? You, too, know so
well what they are! Dear husband, do not despond; God will not forsake
us. He has enabled us to escape from our enemies, from fearful dangers
on our journey. Fear not! He will not leave us to perish now."
The cheering words of his beautiful wife had their effect upon Don
Pablo. He embraced and kissed her in a transport of love and gratitude.
He felt inspired with new hope. The vigour of mind and body, that for
days had deserted him, now suddenly returned; and he sprang to his feet
evidently with some newly-formed resolution.
The country both before and behind them was shut out from their view by
the thick foliage and underwood. A tall tree grew by the spot, with
branches down to the level of a man's head. Don Pablo approached this
tree, and seizing the branches drew himself up, and then climbed on
towards its top. When he had reached a sufficient height, to overlook
the surrounding woods, he stopped; and, resting himself upon one of the
branches, looked abroad toward the east. All the rest stood watching
him from below.
He had been gazing but a few seconds when his face brightened up, and a
smile of satisfaction was seen to play upon his countenance. He
evidently saw something that pleased him. Isidora, impatient, called
out to him from below; but Don Pablo waved his hand to her, as if
admonishing her to be silent.
"Have patience, love," he cried down. "I shall descend presently and
tell you all. I have good news, but be patient."
It required a good share of patience, for Don Pablo after this remained
a full half-hour upon the tree. He was not all the time looking abroad,
however. Part of it he sat upon his perch--his head leaning forward,
and his eyes not appearing to be particularly engaged with anything. He
was busy with his thoughts, and evidently meditating on some great
project. Perhaps the going down of the sun admonished him, as much as
the desire of satisfying his wife's curiosity, but just as the bright
orb was sinking among the far tree-tops he descended.
"Now, Don Pablo," said the fair Isidora, pretending to frown and look
angry, "you have tried our patience, have you not? Come, then, no more
mystery, but tell us all. What have you seen?"
"Forgive me, wife; you shall know all."
Both sat down upon the trunk of a dead tree that Guapo had felled, and
was cutting up for firewood: not that it was at all cold, but they had
now arrived in the country of the terrible _jaguar_, and it would be
necessary to keep up a blazing fire throughout the night.
"Your words were true, love," began Don Pablo. "God has not forsaken
us. I have seen three things that have inspired me with fresh life and
hope.
"First, I looked out upon the Montana, which I expected to see
stretching away to the horizon, like a green ocean. I saw this in fact;
but, to my surprise, I saw more. I beheld a broad river winding like an
immense serpent through the distant forest. It ran in a direction
north-east, as far as the eye could reach. Even upon the horizon I
could distinguish spots of its bright water glancing like silver under
the rays of the setting sun. My heart leaped with joy, for I recognised
a river whose existence has been doubted. It can be no other, thought
I, than the _Madre de Dios_. I have often heard that there existed such
a river in these parts, that runs on to the Amazon. A missionary is
said to have visited it, but with the destruction of the missions the
record has been lost. I have no doubt the river I have seen is the
_Madre de Dios_ of that missionary.
"The thought of being so near the banks of this river suggested other
thoughts. At once a design entered into my mind. `We can build a
raft,' thought I, `launch it upon this noble river, and float down to
the Amazon, and thence to the mouth of the great stream itself. There
is a Portuguese settlement there--the town of Grand Para. There we
shall be safe from our foes.'
"Such were my first thoughts on beholding the new river. I reflected
farther. `Our fortune is gone,' I reflected; `we have nothing in the
wide world--what should we do at Para, even if we arrived there in
safety? How could we attempt such a journey without provisions. It
would be impossible.'
"My hopes fell as quickly as they had sprung up."
"I noticed your countenance change as you sat upon the tree."
"True, you might easily have done so: the prospect of reaching Para
penniless, and becoming a beggar in the streets--the nearer prospect of
starving in the wilderness of the Amazon--were before my mind.