When M. T. Pate rushed from the hotel in Callao, he had been rendered
frantic by the ridicule of the merciless wags by whom he was surrounded.
Blinded with passion, he was hurrying along, not knowing nor caring
whither he went, when he ran over a buzzard in the street and fell flat
on his face. Springing to his feet, he struck the bird a heavy blow with
a stick which laid it dead in the gutter. These industrious scavengers
are protected by law in the Peruvian cities, and hardly had Pate
committed this outrage when he was seized by a couple of soldiers and
carried to the calaboose. For many weeks Pate pined in prison, living on
exceedingly low diet. He was plunged in the depths of despair, and
supposed that he would have to end his days in captivity as an expiation
for his offense. He could see but a single gleam of hope. An earthquake
might come and shake down the walls of his prison, and he might thus
effect his escape. But there appeared to be a dearth of earthquakes in
the country just at that time. Pate had often, during a long drought,
read the prayers in church for rain, and he now used the same formula
and prayed for an earthquake. But no convulsion of nature occurred,
although he would often put his ear to the floor, and eagerly listen for
the rumbling sounds which usually precede a subterranean commotion. One
afternoon an old American tar was put in the calaboose for riotous
conduct while drunk. The sailor lay on the floor, in the same room with
Pate, and slept soundly until about the middle of the night, when he
woke up sobered and in the full possession of his faculties. Pate was on
his knees, loudly and fervently praying for an earthquake. The old salt
sat on the floor and listened until he began to comprehend, when he
became much excited.
"Avast, you lubber!" he cried out, springing to his feet.
Pate paid no attention. He was so absorbed in his devotions as not to
be conscious of exterior surroundings.
"Stop your yarn!" said the sailor.
Pate heeded him not.
"Shiver my timbers!" shouted the old tar, fiercely, "if I don't plug up
your dead-lights!" And he seized Pate by the collar and thrust his huge
fist under his nose.
"Murder!" cried Pate.
"Murder, and bloody murder, it will be, if you don't stop spinning your
yarn," said the sailor.
"Who are you? who are you?" cried Pate.
"Belong to the ship Fredonia," said the tar.
"Did you kill a buzzard?" said Pate.
"No; I got drunk. They'll let me out in the morning. I've been here
before."
"Will you get out? I'll have to stay here all my life."
"What sort of a cruise have you been on that brought you into this port?
What did they put you here for?"
"I killed a buzzard."
"If you'd killed a man they wouldn't have minded it much. But they think
more of their blasted buzzards than they do of their shovel-hats."
"Will I ever get out?" cried Pate. "Oh, that I could get a letter to my
friends!"
"Are you an American man?"
"I am! I am! And in a dirty prison for killing a buzzard!"
"Give me your paw, shipmate! I'll stand by you. Good luck was the wind
that brought me under your stern."
Pate and the old tar now had a long talk, and it was determined that the
former should address a note to the American consul, which he did;
writing with a pencil on a blank leaf torn from his pocket-book. In the
morning the sailor was released, and carried Pate's communication to the
consul, who transmitted it to the American minister at Lima.
The condition of the unhappy captive thus came to the knowledge of the
representative of the great republic; who told the Peruvian government,
in plain terms, that his country would not permit one of her citizens
to remain in prison during so long a period, merely for the paltry
offense of slaying a turkey-buzzard. An angry correspondence ensued; and
during its pendency, a heavy American frigate and two corvettes came
into the harbor of Callao, and anchored with their broadsides bearing
upon the fort. The decided tone of the minister who was a man of nerve
and determination, and the presence of this formidable force, convinced
the Peruvian authorities that his Excellency was in earnest; and being
in no condition to risk a bombardment, much less a ruinous war with a
nation so powerful as the United States, they consented to the release
of the prisoner on condition that he should leave the country within
forty-eight hours.
Pate now determined to return home without delay. He had long since
become disgusted with gold-hunting; and the home-sickness, which came
over him in the calaboose, continued after he got out. So he immediately
took passage on an English brig bound for Panama; intending to proceed
by way of the Isthmus to New York.
Having purchased a monkey to keep him company during the voyage, he went
on board, and the vessel sailed. He had a pleasant passage until they
were within a day's sail of Panama, when he met with a sad mishap. He
was sitting on deck, dandling his monkey on his knee, when a careless
lubber let a pot containing red paint fall from the tops. The paint was
spattered over M. T. Pate, who thought that it was his own blood and
brains, and under this impression, supposing that he would have to give
up the ghost, fainted away. But a bucket of salt-water being dashed in
his face by an old tar, he revived, and, looking around, perceived that
his monkey was dead. The pot had hit it on the head and killed it
instantly. He mourned over his monkey until he reached Panama, where he
rested a day, and then bought a mule and started across the Isthmus.
At a short distance from Cruces, in sight of the road, is a large ship's
anchor lying in the wood. How it came there nobody can tell. Many
suppose that it was conveyed from the Caribbean Sea up the Chagres River
by Pizarro and his Spaniards, when they were proceeding to Panama to
construct vessels for the conquest of Peru; and that being unable to
transport it any farther by land, they had left it lying in the forest.
Pate tied his mule to a tree, and, walking aside from the road, seated
himself on the anchor and began to meditate.
"Here," said he, in a soliloquy, "once stood Pizarro the Conqueror. No
daring robber, animated by the sordid love of gold, was that great man.
He came to destroy the pagan superstitions of a benighted land, and to
extend the blessings of civilization over an entire continent."
As Pate uttered these words, his guardian angel, who was anxiously
hovering over him, wanted to warn him of his danger, but was unable to
do so. A man of savage aspect had crept from a thicket in his rear, and,
with a catlike step, was cautiously advancing, having a heavy club
raised in readiness to strike.
"In those days," said Pate, "all was darkness and barbarism; but now,
the benign influences of----"
The club descended. Pate beheld a whole constellation, and several
planets at mid-day, and sank senseless to the earth.
When Pate opened his eyes it was late in the afternoon. Flocks of
parrots were fluttering around him, and multitudes of monkeys were
chattering and nimbly leaping among the boughs of the trees. He arose
from the greensward with a bad headache, and discovered that he had been
robbed. His money was gone, and his mule had disappeared. Without a
dollar, he was in a strange land and thousands of miles from home. He
staggered on until he reached Cruces, where he entered a public house
kept by an American, to whom he related his misfortunes.
The man had just lost his bar-keeper, and employed M. T. Pate to wait
upon his customers until he could earn money enough to pay his passage
to the United States. And here he was found by Wiggins and his
companions washing a bottle.