THE COST OF LIQUOR AND MY RETURN TO LIMA
STRANGE though it may seem, and to show the small value which was
placed on human life in those rough times, the tragedy narrated in the
previous chapter was forgotten in a few days by most of us, until about
two weeks afterwards, while a number of us were sitting around the camp
fire smoking our pipes before turning in for the night, big Tom Dixon
referred to the affair and remarked that it was a big price to pay for
a drink.
“You’re right, Tom,” said Alec McLeod, “and many a hundred lives have
been lost up these mountains from that same cause. I well remember when
we were making the old Sacremonta Railway up in California I saw a
similar occurrence. It was this way:
“One evening, after a difficult piece of work had been done, our
superintendent sent us a couple of cases of whiskey, ‘to wet the job’
as he called it. Among our party was a young strapping fellow, he had
been an athlete in the old country, clean in speech and actions, a
man every inch of him, to whom the taste of drink was unknown, but
whether through forgetfulness or bravado, this day he was persuaded to
take some whisky. Not being used to it he was soon under its deadly
influence, and ere an hour had passed the man had become a changed
creature, and was boasting and bragging of his feats in the old
country, and offering to run or jump with any man in the camp. We all
knew it was the whisky, and not the man that was talking, and so took
no notice of what he was saying. But he would not let the matter drop,
and to make matters worse near to our camp there was a great chasm in
the mountain about twelve feet wide. The surface for about fifty yards
on either side was quite flat. The chasm was fully three hundred feet
deep, and he offered to bet anybody ten dollars that he could jump
across the chasm, and no man in the camp would dare to follow him.
“‘Don’t be a fool,’ cried some of the men. ‘You’d find yourself in
pieces at the bottom of it, if you tried fooling around that place.’
“But the drink was in, and the wit was out.
“‘I’ll bet you ten dollars you can’t,’ said one of the foremen, himself
half muddled with drink.
“‘Done!’ he cried, and before we could stop him he darted off. We sat
spell-bound gazing after him. He took the leap splendidly and landed
quite two feet clear on the other side. A loud shout of praise went up
from his mates, but ere it had left their lips it gave place to a cry
of horror, for, as he landed, his leg seemed to give way beneath him,
and he fell backwards, head first, down that awful chasm of death, a
victim to that terrible drink which is always a curse to all who touch
it.
“I shall never forget it, never as long as I live, he added, for he was
as splendid a specimen of man as I have ever seen.”
“Aye, lads!” said big Tom Dixon, after we had puffed away in silence
for a few seconds, “I have been a good many years at this work in
various parts of the world, and I’ve seen hundreds of splendid fellows
come to sad and terrible deaths through the self same drink that you
and I are such fools to indulge in. The sky pilots (parsons) would have
an easy job if the devil lost his bosom friend, alcohol. I have seen
such things happen through it as would make your hair stand on end if
you had been there with me.”
“Did your hair stand up, Tom?” asked one of the men jocularly.
For reply Tom raised his cap. He had been scalped.
“Yes,” he said, “it was lifted.”
“Tell us the story, Tom,” we all cried together, “fire away.”
“All right mates,” Tom answered, “and I hope it’ll be a lesson to some
of you.
“Away back in the sixties I was working on a new line up the Rocky
Mountains in California. It was as rough a bit of country as could be
found, and we had a lot of trouble with the Indians. There was hardly
a day passed without some poor fellow being picked off with their
arrows.
“We had with us a number of peaceful Indians working on the line, and
all things seemed to be going on well. However, one Saturday, after
finishing a section of the line, a few of the head bosses came up to
see it, and signified their satisfaction by sending a few cases of
whisky to be distributed among the white and Indian labourers. There
were about forty-five white men and one hundred and sixty Indians.
We also received one month’s pay the same day, so that all were well
furnished with the wherewithal for a jovial time. The white men,
who were well used to drinking whiskey, soon disposed of their lot,
and then some of the unruly ones suggested going over to the Indian
camp and buying some more from the Indians, who were in general very
temperate in the use of liquor. This was agreed to by most of the men,
but some of the wiser ones did their best to dissuade them from doing
this, but the majority carried the day and off they went, and I amongst
them, worse luck.
“The Indians were having a great corroboree when our chaps arrived,
but did not appear to have been drinking much, they were received very
coolly and shown very plainly that their room was of more value than
their company. However, they sold our chaps a few bottles of whiskey,
and told them to go back to their own camp. This angered some of the
rougher of our men, and one of them, half muddled with drink, struck
one of the Indians full in the face with his hand.
“In an instant the Indian had buried his knife up to the hilt in the
man’s throat, killing him instantly, but before he could withdraw it,
he was shot dead by another of the white men. Then each man sprang
to his feet, and at each other’s throats, knives and revolvers were
drawn and a scene ensued that God forbid I should ever witness or take
part in again. At the first onset the light was put out and knives
and revolvers used indiscriminately. A few minutes after the row had
started I received an awful blow on the side of the head, which stunned
me at once. On coming to, I found two redskins lying on the top of me,
dead, they had both been shot. The fight was still going on at the
other side of the big tent. Slowly I crawled from under the two dead
men, and in doing so I felt something wet touch my face, and found to
my horror it was my own scalp the dead Indian grasped--he had been shot
just after scalping me. I cut through the tent, and, covered with blood
and fainting from weakness, made my way over to our camp. There was no
one there, and I just managed to creep into a corner when I collapsed
with the awful pain in my head. When I came to, one of my mates was
bathing my head and face. He told me that when the six men that
remained in our camp heard the shots and shouts, two of them ran down
to the lower settlement for assistance. The other four, well armed,
had hidden themselves to watch and, if possible, succour any of their
mates who managed to get back to their own camp. After a while they saw
me creeping along, covered with blood and stumbling every few yards,
making for our tent. They waited for me to get a little nearer before
they left their hiding place to come to my assistance. Suddenly they
espied two other forms creeping after me, and not being sure if they
were friends or foes, they lay quite still for a few moments to make
sure. All at once the two forms sprang towards me with knives uplifted
to slay me, when they were shot dead by my mates, who then carried me
to the place where they had been hiding.
“‘How goes the row, Tom?’ they asked, when I opened my eyes.
“‘I think all our chaps are done for, mates,’ I answered, ‘and we must
keep away from our tent lads, I am afraid the Indians will rush it
after the fight.’
“The shots now began to clear off, and we knew that many a life had
paid dear for the drink that night.
“Just after I was carried into safety, we heard a rush of feet from the
Indian tent, and about ten or twelve Indians rushed over to our tents,
flourishing axes and knives, while some had revolvers. They had just
got within ten feet of the entrance when a perfect volley of shots
rang out from a spot just to the right of the tent, and every Indian
fell riddled with bullets. It was the relief party of whites who had
come to our assistance.
“After seeing that this lot of redskins were dead, they made a rush for
the Indian quarters, and on getting lights a terrible sight met their
view. There was not a single man in the tent with a spark of life in
him, and every white man was scalped; and the bodies stripped of arms,
money and fearfully mutilated; just near the door there were a heap of
bodies, five of our men and thirteen redskins. Poor Seth Walker, as
good a mate as ever worked, was almost slashed to pieces. He had five
Indians lying on the top of him. These apparently had been shot by Old
Dan Creegan, for his body was close to, and partly on them, with his
head split open by a tomahawk. It was just like a slaughter house, and
God forbid that I should ever see such another sight. In and around
that tent there were thirty-seven dead white men and sixty dead Indians.
“A body of troops was sent in to the district to search for the
runaways, but none were ever found. They had made off into the back
territories, where they could not be followed.
“Now mates,” he added, “all that terrible loss of life was caused
through drink. And now hear me boys, I swear, so help me God, I will
never touch another drop of liquor as long as I live.”
“Hear, hear,” said several of the men, and whether it was the effect of
the gruesome stories, or the tragedy, I don’t know, but the men of that
gang, during the time I was with them, were certainly much more sober
than they usually were.
Now about one mile to the south of our station, and on the middle
ridge of the Cordilleras there is one of the most interesting relics,
belonging to the Incas Indians, and I had not been in that district
long before my friend the old chief told me the history of it, and also
went with me when I went to see it. It was called, he said, the Ancient
Council Chamber, and was used for that purpose in their glorious past,
long years before the Spanish robbers came to Peru. The place is a
level and circular patch about half a mile across, while the peaks
around it are very steep. From the ground to about sixty feet up the
side, all around, there are steps, or seats, cut out of the solid rock,
like the gallery in a circus. Each seat is about twenty-four inches
wide and eighteen inches high, all apparently having been cut by hand.
On the western side is a large seat cut into the shape of an arm-chair,
this no doubt, being the seat of honour in that vast council chamber.
Above the seats are the figures of birds, and beasts, cut into the
solid rock. These are so gigantic that they can only be seen in all
their beauty from the other side of the valley, and then it is both a
beautiful and majestic sight, whilst overhead is the canopy of the
blue sky. Looking at it, and thinking of the centuries that have passed
since the days of Pizarro and his robber crew, it was not difficult,
as the old chief sat beside me telling me their legends, to picture
them in their pride and glory when Peru was a great nation, and to see
once more that chamber filled with proud chiefs, met to do homage to
their ruler, sitting so calm and stately in the great chair, as they
passed before him to their seats and to assist him by their counsel in
the government of their country. Strange though it may seem, they have
amongst their legends one of the flood we read of in Bible history.
But oppression and cruelty have done much to sap up their strength and
pride, and has left them a happy-go-lucky, indolent and harmless race;
the men are short in stature, strong and sturdy in limb, but no great
lovers of work, this being so, and no doubt a remnant of their old
pride makes their women the chief workers, more especially about their
homes and in the fields.
The Indians who were with us were employed on the great tunnel at the
top of the track, and they were engaged to wheel the debris out of the
tunnel, as the Chinese were blasting and cutting. Now all Indians carry
weights on their heads, but as a barrow of broken rock was too heavy
for that, they were forced to adopt our method of wheeling it, but when
empty, nothing would induce them to wheel the barrow back, no, they
would turn it upside down and carry it on their heads, much to the
amusement of the other workers.
One morning, before turn-to time, I strolled up the valley above our
camp to get a nearer view of some of the magnificent waterfalls to
be found among the snow-capped peaks. I had climbed up and down for
some time, when I became very thirsty, and meeting one of the Gambetta
Indian women carrying a skin of goat’s milk, I asked her for a drink.
She at once gave me a horn full, which I drank eagerly and found very
refreshing. Then I went back to the camp.
“Where have you been rambling to?” said Mike Hogan, the foreman.
I told him, and added, “I got a good drink of milk from an Indian
woman.”
“The devil you did,” he said, “was it boiled?”
“Boiled be hanged,” I replied. “She gave it me out of a skin and I
drank it at once.”
“You’re a darned young fool for your pains then, and you had better get
down to Lima again as soon as possible. The fever will break out on you
in less than twenty-four hours, so you had better get down to Chicla
and take a train for Lima at once. Come along to my room, and I will
make out your pass, and an order for your money, so that you can draw
it when you get down to Monserrat.”
I offered a protest, and said I felt perfectly well. But it was no
good--he packed me off. I rode on one of the mules to Chicla and
caught the train leaving Chicla at one p.m., but before we left the
station I began to feel very tired and weary, with severe pains in the
muscles of my arms and legs.
When we stopped at San Bartolome to pick up passengers, three young
English boys got on the train to go down to Lima. Their ages, as far
as I could judge, were between seventeen and eighteen. The eldest
was wrapped in a blanket, and his young mates were taking him to
Lima Hospital. He had the Oroya fever and looked ghastly I got into
conversation with the youngest, who told me they had only been three
weeks in the country. They were apprentices on a Liverpool barque, and
when they arrived in Callao some men there had persuaded them that they
could get a pound a day on the Oroya Railway, and, as their food was
very Lad, and very short, on the vessel, they had run away.
With tears in his eyes the young lad told me that Charlie had taken the
fever two days after they had started work. The two lads had nursed him
as well as they were able, but he grew worse, and the superintendent at
last ordered them to take him to the hospital.
What a bitter experience for three young lads in a strange land.
Turning to his sick friend, the boy tried to cheer him up, saying:
“You will soon forget all this Charlie, when we get out to sea again.
We shall be down before dark, and you’ll soon be all right when you get
into a nice comfortable bed in the hospital.”
The poor sick lad smiled faintly.
“I am dying, Frank, dying,” he murmured, “far away from home, tell
mother I am sorry we left the ship.”
And in a few minutes he died in their arms.
The two poor lads sobbed as though their hearts would break and asked
me whatever could they do with Charlie. Poor fellows, it was a bitter
lesson they were learning. Their position was indeed a sad one, but
there were kind, tender hearts, and willing hands ready to help them in
Lima.
As soon as we arrived there, the railway staff placed the body in the
carpenter’s shop, and after the doctor had certified the cause of
death, a coffin was made for it, then the railway authorities arranged
for the burial at the English cemetery. The two others were looked
after by the station-master himself until after the funeral and then he
got them a berth in a ship bound for Liverpool, and in a few days they
left the land that had brought them such bitter sorrow and pain.