NOTHING of importance had occurred hitherto in the passage through
Chili; but all the obstacles and difficulties incident to a mountain
journey were about to crowd on the travelers now.
One important question had first to be settled. Which pass would take
them over the Andes, and yet not be out of their fixed route?
On questioning the CATAPEZ on the subject, he replied:
“There are only two practicable passes that I know of in this part of
the Cordilleras.”
“The pass of Arica is one undoubtedly discovered by Valdivia Mendoze,”
said Paganel.
“Just so.”
“And that of Villarica is the other.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, my good fellow, both these passes have only one fault; they take
us too far out of our route, either north or south.”
“Have you no other to propose?” asked the Major.
“Certainly,” replied Paganel. “There is the pass of Antuco, on the slope
of the volcano, in latitude, 37 degrees 30’ , or, in other words, only
half a degree out of our way.”
“That would do, but are you acquainted with this pass of Antuco,
CATAPEZ?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, your Lordship, I have been through it, but I did not mention
it, as no one goes that way but the Indian shepherds with the herds of
cattle.”
“Oh, very well; if mares and sheep and oxen can go that way, we can, so
let’s start at once.”
The signal for departure was given immediately, and they struck into the
heart of the valley of Las Lejas, between great masses of chalk crystal.
From this point the pass began to be difficult, and even dangerous. The
angles of the declivities widened and the ledges narrowed, and frightful
precipices met their gaze. The mules went cautiously along, keeping
their heads near the ground, as if scenting the track. They marched
in file. Sometimes at a sudden bend of the road, the MADRINA would
disappear, and the little caravan had to guide themselves by the distant
tinkle of her bell. Often some capricious winding would bring the column
in two parallel lines, and the CATAPEZ could speak to his PEONS across
a crevasse not two fathoms wide, though two hundred deep, which made
between them an inseparable gulf.
Glenarvan followed his guide step by step. He saw that his perplexity
was increasing as the way became more difficult, but did not dare to
interrogate him, rightly enough, perhaps, thinking that both mules and
muleteers were very much governed by instinct, and it was best to trust
to them.
For about an hour longer the CATAPEZ kept wandering about almost at
haphazard, though always getting higher up the mountains. At last he was
obliged to stop short. They were in a narrow valley, one of those gorges
called by the Indians “quebrads,” and on reaching the end, a wall of
porphyry rose perpendicularly before them, and barred further passage.
The CATAPEZ, after vain attempts at finding an opening, dismounted,
crossed his arms, and waited. Glenarvan went up to him and asked if he
had lost his way.
“No, your Lordship,” was the reply.
“But you are not in the pass of Antuco.”
“We are.”
“You are sure you are not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken. See! there are the remains of a fire left by the
Indians, and there are the marks of the mares and the sheep.”
“They must have gone on then.”
“Yes, but no more will go; the last earthquake has made the route
impassable.”
“To mules,” said the Major, “but not to men.”
“Ah, that’s your concern; I have done all I could. My mules and myself
are at your service to try the other passes of the Cordilleras.”
“And that would delay us?”
“Three days at least.”
Glenarvan listened silently. He saw the CATAPEZ was right. His mules
could not go farther. When he talked of returning, however, Glenarvan
appealed to his companions and said:
“Will you go on in spite of all the difficulty?”
“We will follow your Lordship,” replied Tom Austin.
“And even precede you,” added Paganel. “What is it after all? We have
only to cross the top of the mountain chain, and once over, nothing can
be easier of descent than the slopes we shall find there. When we get
below, we shall find BAQUEANOS, Argentine shepherds, who will guide
us through the Pampas, and swift horses accustomed to gallop over
the plains. Let’s go forward then, I say, and without a moment’s
hesitation.”
“Forward!” they all exclaimed. “You will not go with us, then?” said
Glenarvan to the CATAPEZ.
“I am the muleteer,” was the reply.
“As you please,” said Glenarvan.
“We can do without him,” said Paganel. “On the other side we shall get
back into the road to Antuco, and I’m quite sure I’ll lead you to the
foot of the mountain as straight as the best guide in the Cordilleras.”
Accordingly, Glenarvan settled accounts with the CATAPEZ, and bade
farewell to him and his PEONS and mules. The arms and instruments, and a
small stock of provisions were divided among the seven travelers, and it
was unanimously agreed that the ascent should recommence at once, and,
if necessary, should continue part of the night. There was a very steep
winding path on the left, which the mules never would have attempted.
It was toilsome work, but after two hours’ exertion, and a great deal of
roundabout climbing, the little party found themselves once more in the
pass of Antuco.
They were not far now from the highest peak of the Cordilleras, but
there was not the slightest trace of any beaten path. The entire region
had been overturned by recent shocks of earthquake, and all they
could do was to keep on climbing higher and higher. Paganel was rather
disconcerted at finding no way out to the other side of the chain, and
laid his account with having to undergo great fatigue before the topmost
peaks of the Andes could be reached, for their mean height is between
eleven and twelve thousand six hundred feet. Fortunately the weather was
calm and the sky clear, in addition to the season being favorable,
but in Winter, from May to October, such an ascent would have been
impracticable. The intense cold quickly kills travelers, and those who
even manage to hold out against it fall victims to the violence of the
TEMPORALES, a sort of hurricane peculiar to those regions, which yearly
fills the abysses of the Cordilleras with dead bodies.
They went on toiling steadily upward all night, hoisting themselves up
to almost inaccessible plateaux, and leaping over broad, deep crevasses.
They had no ropes, but arms linked in arms supplied the lack, and
shoulders served for ladders. The strength of Mulrady and the dexterity
of Wilson were taxed heavily now. These two brave Scots multiplied
themselves, so to speak. Many a time, but for their devotion and courage
the small band could not have gone on. Glenarvan never lost sight of
young Robert, for his age and vivacity made him imprudent. Paganel was a
true Frenchman in his impetuous ardor, and hurried furiously along. The
Major, on the contrary, only went as quick as was necessary, neither
more nor less, climbing without the least apparent exertion. Perhaps he
hardly knew, indeed, that he was climbing at all, or perhaps he fancied
he was descending.
The whole aspect of the region had now completely changed. Huge blocks
of glittering ice, of a bluish tint on some of the declivities, stood up
on all sides, reflecting the early light of morn. The ascent became very
perilous. They were obliged to reconnoiter carefully before making a
single step, on account of the crevasses. Wilson took the lead, and
tried the ground with his feet. His companions followed exactly in his
footprints, lowering their voices to a whisper, as the least sound would
disturb the currents of air, and might cause the fall of the masses of
snow suspended in the air seven or eight hundred feet above their heads.
They had come now to the region of shrubs and bushes, which, higher
still, gave place to grasses and cacti. At 11,000 feet all trace of
vegetation had disappeared. They had only stopped once, to rest and
snatch a hurried meal to recruit their strength. With superhuman
courage, the ascent was then resumed amid increasing dangers and
difficulties. They were forced to bestride sharp peaks and leap over
chasms so deep that they did not dare to look down them. In many places
wooden crosses marked the scene of some great catastrophes.
About two o’clock they came to an immense barren plain, without a sign
of vegetation. The air was dry and the sky unclouded blue. At this
elevation rain is unknown, and vapors only condense into snow or hail.
Here and there peaks of porphyry or basalt pierced through the white
winding-sheet like the bones of a skeleton; and at intervals fragments
of quartz or gneiss, loosened by the action of the air, fell down with
a faint, dull sound, which in a denser atmosphere would have been almost
imperceptible.
However, in spite of their courage, the strength of the little band was
giving way. Glenarvan regretted they had gone so far into the interior
of the mountain when he saw how exhausted his men had become. Young
Robert held out manfully, but he could not go much farther.
At three o’clock Glenarvan stopped and said:
“We must rest.”
He knew if he did not himself propose it, no one else would.
“Rest?” rejoined Paganel; “we have no place of shelter.”
“It is absolutely necessary, however, if it were only for Robert.”
“No, no,” said the courageous lad; “I can still walk; don’t stop.”
“You shall be carried, my boy; but we must get to the other side of the
Cordilleras, cost what it may. There we may perhaps find some hut to
cover us. All I ask is a two hours’ longer march.”
“Are you all of the same opinion?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” was the unanimous reply: and Mulrady added, “I’ll carry the boy.”
The march eastward was forthwith resumed. They had a frightful height to
climb yet to gain the topmost peaks. The rarefaction of the atmosphere
produced that painful oppression known by the name of PUNA. Drops of
blood stood on the gums and lips, and respiration became hurried and
difficult. However strong the will of these brave men might be, the
time came at last when their physical powers failed, and vertigo,
that terrible malady in the mountains, destroyed not only their bodily
strength but their moral energy. Falls became frequent, and those who
fell could not rise again, but dragged themselves along on their knees.
But just as exhaustion was about to make short work of any further
ascent, and Glenarvan’s heart began to sink as he thought of the snow
lying far as the eye could reach, and of the intense cold, and saw the
shadow of night fast overspreading the desolate peaks, and knew they had
not a roof to shelter them, suddenly the Major stopped and said, in a
calm voice, “A hut!”