A Timely Warning.
The involuntary bath which saved our lives served also to restore our strength. When we entered it we were well-nigh spent; we went out of it free from any sense of fatigue, a result which was probably as much due to the chemical properties of the water as to its high temperature.
But though no longer tired we were both hungry and thirsty, and our garments were wringing wet. Our first proceeding was to take them off and wring them; our next, to look for fresh water—for the azuferales was like the ocean-water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
As we picked our way over the smoking waste by the light of the full moon and the burning forest, I asked Carmen, who knew the country and its ways so much better than myself, what he proposed that we should do next.
“Rejoin Mejia.”
“But how? We are in the enemies’ country and without horses, and we know not where Mejia is.”
“I don’t think he is far off. He is not the man to retreat after a drawn battle. Until he has beaten Griscelli or Griscelli has beaten him, you may be sure he won’t go back to the llanos; his men would not let him. As for horses, we must appropriate the first we come across, either by stratagem or force.”
“Is there a way out of the forest on this side?”
“Yes, there is a good trail made by Indian invalids who come here to drink the waters. Our difficulty will not be so much in finding our friends as avoiding our enemies. A few hours’ walk will bring us to more open country, but we cannot well start until—”
“Good heavens! What is that?” I exclaimed, as a plaintive cry, which ended in a wail of anguish, such as might be given by a lost soul in torment, rang through the forest.
“It’s an araguato, a howling monkey,” said Carmen, indifferently. “That’s only some old fellow setting the tune; we shall have a regular chorus presently.”
And so we had. The first howl was followed by a second, then by a third, and a fourth, and soon all the araguatoes in the neighborhood joined in, and the din became so agonizing that I was fain to put my fingers in my ears and wait for a lull.
“It sounds dismal enough, in all conscience—to us; but I think they mean it for a cry of joy, a sort of morning hymn; at any rate, they don’t generally begin until sunrise. But these are perhaps mistaking the fire for the sun.”
And no wonder. It was spreading rapidly. The leafless trees that bordered the western side of the azuferales were all alight; sparks, carried by the wind, had kindled several giants of the forest, which, “tall as mast of some high admiral,” were flaunting their flaring banners a hundred feet above the mass of the fire.
It was the most magnificent spectacle I had ever seen, so magnificent that in watching it we forgot our own danger, as, if the fire continued to spread, the forest would be impassable for days, and we should be imprisoned on the azuferales without either food or fresh water.
“Look yonder!” said Carmen, laying his hand on my shoulder. A herd of deer were breaking out of the thicket and bounding across the moor.
“Wild animals escaping from the fire?”
“Yes, and we shall have more of them.”
The words were scarcely spoken when the deer were followed by a drove of peccaries; then came jaguars, pumas, antelopes, and monkeys; panthers and wolves and snakes, great and small, wriggling over the ground with wondrous speed, and creatures the like of which I had never seen before—a regular stampede of all sorts and conditions of reptiles and beasts, and all too much frightened to meddle either with us or each other.
Fortunately for us, moreover, we were not in their line of march, and there lay between us and them a line of hot springs and smoking sulphur mounds which they were not likely to pass.
The procession had been going on about half an hour when, happening to cast my eye skyward, I saw that the moon had disappeared; overhead hung a heavy mass of cloud, the middle of it reddened by the reflection from the fire to the color of blood, while the outer edges were as black as ink. It was almost as grand a spectacle as the burning forest itself.
“We are going to have rain,” said Carmen.
“I hope it will rain in bucketfuls,” was my answer, for I had drunk nothing since we left San Felipe, and the run, together with the high temperature and the heat of the fire, had given me an intolerable thirst. I spoke with difficulty, my swollen tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and I would gladly have given ten years of my life for one glass of cold water.
Carmen, whose sufferings were as great as my own, echoed my hope. And it was not long in being gratified, for even as we gazed upward a flash of lightning split the clouds asunder; peal of thunder followed on peal, the rain came down not in drops nor bucketfuls but in sheets, and with weight and force sufficient to beat a child or a weakling to the earth, It was a veritable godsend; we caught the beautiful cool water in our hands and drank our fill.
In less than an hour not a trace of the fire could be seen—nor anything else. The darkness had become so dense that we feared to move lest we might perchance step into one of the boiling springs, fall into the jaws of a jaguar, or set foot on a poisonous snake. So we stayed where we were, whiles lying on the flooded ground, whiles standing up or walking a few paces in the rain, which continued to fall until the rising of the sun, when it ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
The moor had been turned into a smoking swamp, with a blackened forest on one side and a wall of living green on the other. The wild animals had vanished.
“Let us go!” said Carmen.
When we reached the trees we took off our clothes a second time, hung them on a branch, and sat in the sun till they dried.
“I suppose it is no use thinking about breakfast till we get to a house or the camp, wherever that may be?” I observed, as we resumed our journey.
“Well, I don’t know. What do you say about a cup of milk to begin with?”
“There is nothing I should like better—to begin with—but where is the cow?”
“There!” pointing to a fine tree with oblong leaves.
“That!”
“Yes, that is the palo de vaca (cow-tree), and as you shall presently see, it will give us a very good breakfast, though we may get nothing else. But we shall want cups. Ah, there is a calabash-tree! Lend me your knife a minute. Gracias!”
And with that Carmen went to the tree, from which he cut a large pear-shaped fruit. This, by slicing off the top and scooping out the pulp he converted into a large bowl. The next thing was to make a gash in the palo de vaca, whereupon there flowed from the wound a thick milky fluid which we caught in the bowl and drank. The taste was agreeable and the result satisfactory, for, though a beefsteak would have been more acceptable, the drink stayed our hunger for the time and helped us on our way.
The trail was easily found. For a considerable distance it ran between a double row of magnificent mimosa-trees which met overhead at a height of fully one hundred and fifty feet, making a glorious canopy of green leaves and rustling branches. The rain had cooled the air and laid the dust, and but for the danger we were in (greater than we suspected) and the necessity we were under of being continually on the alert, we should have had a most enjoyable walk. Late in the afternoon we passed a hut and a maize-field, the first sign of cultivation we had seen since leaving the azuferales, and ascertained our bearings from an old peon who was swinging in a grass hammock and smoking a cigar. San Felipe was about two leagues away, and he strongly advised us not to follow a certain trail, which he described, lest haply we might fall in with Mejia’s caballeros, some of whom he had himself seen within the hour a little lower down the valley.
This was good news, and we went on in high spirits.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Carmen, complacently. “I knew Mejia would not be far off. He is like one of your English bull-dogs. He never knows when he is beaten.”
After a while the country became more open, with here and there patches of cultivation; huts were more frequent and we met several groups of peons who, however, eyed us so suspiciously that we thought it inexpedient to ask them any questions.
About an hour before sunset we perceived in the near distance a solitary horseman; but as his face was turned the other way he did not see us.
“He looks like one of our fellows,” observed Carmen, after scanning him closely. “All the same, he may not be. Let us slip behind this acacia-bush and watch his movements.”
The man himself seemed to be watching. After a short halt, he rode away and returned, but whether halting or moving he was always on the lookout, and as might appear, keenly expectant.
At length he came our way.
“I do believe—Por Dios it is—Guido Pasto, my own man!” and Carmen, greatly excited, rushed from his hiding-place shouting, “Guido!” at the top of his voice.
I followed him, equally excited but less boisterous.
Guido, recognizing his master’s voice, galloped forward and greeted us warmly, for though he acted as Carmen’s servant he was a free llanero, and expected to be treated as a gentleman and a friend.
“Gracias a Dios!” he said; “I was beginning to fear that we had passed you. Gahra and I have been looking for you all day!”
“That was very good of you; and Señor Fortescue and I owe you a thousand thanks. But where are General Mejia and the army?”
“Near the old place. In a better position, though. But you must not go there—neither of you.”
“We must not go there! But why?”
“Because if you do the general will hang you.”
“Hang us! Hang Señor Fortescue, who has come all the way from England to help us! Hang me, Salvador Carmen! You have had a sunstroke and lost your wits; that’s what it is, Guido Pasto, you have lost your wits—but, perhaps you are joking. Say, now, you are joking.”
“No, señor. It would ill become me to make a foolish joke at your expense. Neither have I lost my wits, as you are pleased to suggest. It is only too true; you are in deadly peril. We may be observed, even now. Let us go behind these bushes, where we may converse in safety. It was to warn you of your danger that Gahra and I have been watching for you. Gahra will be here presently, and he will tell you that what I say is true.”
“This passes comprehension. What does it all mean? Out with it, good Guido; you have always been faithful, and I don’t think you are a fool.”
“Thanks for your good opinion, señor. Well, it is very painful for me to have to say it; but the general believes, and save your own personal friends, all the army believes, that you and señor Fortescue are traitors—that you betrayed them to the enemy.”
“On what grounds?” asked Carmen, highly indignant.
“You went to reconnoitre; you did not come back; the next morning we were attacked by Griscelli in force, and Señor Fortescue was seen among the enemy, seen by General Mejia himself. It was, moreover, reported this morning in the camp that Griscelli had let you go.”
“So he did, and hunted us with his infernal blood-hounds, and we only escaped by the skin of our teeth. We were surprised and taken prisoners. Señor Fortescue was a prisoner on parole when the general saw him. I believe Griscelli obtained his parole and took him to the quebrada for no other purpose than to compromise him with the patriots. And that I, who have killed more than a hundred Spaniards with my own hand, should be suspected of deserting to the enemy is too monstrous for belief.”
“Of course, it is an absurd mistake. Appearances are certainly rather against us—at any rate, against me; but a word of explanation will put the matter right. Let us go to the camp at once and have it out.”
“Not so fast, Señor Fortescue. I should like to have it out much. But there is one little difficulty in the way which you may not have taken into account. Mejia never listens to explanations, and never goes back on his word. If he said he would hang us he will. He would be very sorry afterward, I have no doubt; but that would not bring us back to life, and it would be rather ridiculous to escape Griscelli’s blood-hounds, only to be hanged by our own people.”
“And that is not the worst,” put in Guido.
“Not the worst! Why what can be worse than being hanged?”
“I mean that even if the general did not carry out his threat you would be killed all the same. The Colombian gauchos swear that they will hack you to pieces wherever they find you. When Gahra comes he will tell you the same.”
“You have heard; what do you say?” asked Carmen, turning to me.
“Well, as it seems so certain that if we return to the camp we shall either be hanged or hacked to pieces, I am decidedly of opinion that we had better not return.”
“So am I. At the same time, it is quite evident that we cannot remain here, while every man’s hand is against us. Is there any possibility of procuring horses, Guido?”
“Yes, sir. I think Gahra and I will be able to bring you horses and arms after nightfall.”
“Good! And will Gahra and you throw in your lot with us?”
“Where you go I will go, señor. Let Gahra speak for himself. He will be here shortly. He is coming now. I will show myself that he may know we are here” (stepping out of the thicket).
When the negro arrived he expressed great satisfaction at finding us alive and well. He did not think there would be any great difficulty in getting away and bringing us horses. The lleranos were still allowed to come and go pretty much as they liked, and if awkward questions were asked it would be easy to invent excuses. The best time to get away would be immediately after nightfall, when most of the foraging parties would have returned to camp and the men be at supper.
It was thereupon agreed that the attempt should be made, and that we should stay where we were until we heard the howl of an araguato, which Guido could imitate to perfection. This would signify that all was well, and the coast clear.
Then, after giving us a few pieces of tasajo and a handful of cigars, the two men rode off; for the night was at hand, and if we did not escape before light of moon, the chances were very much against our escaping at all.