The Azuferales.
“What is General Griscelli’s game? Does he really mean to let me go, or is he merely playing with me as a cat plays with a mouse?” I asked Guzman, as we sat at supper.
“That is just the question I have been asking myself. I never knew him let a prisoner go before, and I know of no reason why he should treat you more leniently than he treats others. Do you?”
“No. He is more likely to bear me a grudge,” and then I told Guzman what had befallen at Salamanca.
“That makes it still less probable that he will let you go away quietly. Griscelli never forgives, and to-day’s fiasco has put him in a devil of a temper. He is malicious, too. We have all to be careful not to offend him, even in trifles, or he would make life very unpleasant for us, and I fear he has something very unpleasant in store for you. You may depend upon it that he is meditating some trick. He is quite capable of letting you go as far as the bridge, and then bringing you back and hanging you or fastening you to the tail of a wild mustang or the horns of a wild bull. That also would be letting you go.”
“So it would, in a fashion! and I should prefer it to being hanged.”
“I don’t think I would. The hanging would be sooner over and far less painful. And there are many other ways—he might have your hands tied behind your back and cannon-balls fastened to your feet, and then leave you to your own devices.”
“That would not be so bad. We should find some good soul to release us, and I think I could contrive to untie Carmen’s bonds with my teeth.”
“Or he might cut off your ears and put out your eyes—”
“For Heaven’s sake cease these horrible suggestions! You make my blood run cold. But you cannot be serious. Is Griscelli in the habit of putting out the eyes of his prisoners?”
“Not that I am aware of; but I have heard him threaten to do it, and known him to cut off a rebel’s ears first and hang him afterward. All the same I don’t think he is likely to treat you in that way. It might get to the ears of the captain-general, and though he is not very particular where rebels are concerned, he draws the line at mutilation.”
“We shall soon see; we have to be at the old sugar-mill when the moon rises,” I said, gloomily, for the prospect held out by Guzman was anything but encouraging.
“And that will be soon. If I see any way of helping you, without compromising myself, I will. Hospitality has its duties, and I cannot forget that you have fought and bled for Spain. Have another drink; you don’t know what is before you! And take this knife—it will serve also as a dagger—and this pocket-pistol. Put them where they will not be seen. You may find them useful.”
“Gracias! But you surely don’t think we shall be sent adrift weaponless and on foot?”
“That is as it may be; but it is well to provide for contingencies. And now let us start; nothing irritates Griscelli so much as having to wait.”
So, girding on our swords (mine had been restored to me “by special favor,” when I gave my parole), we mounted our horses, which were waiting at the door, and set out.
The savanna was a wide stretch of open ground outside the fortifications, where reviews were held and the troops performed their evolutions; it lay on the north side of the town. Farther on in the same direction was a range of low hills, thickly wooded and ill provided with roads. The country to the east and west was pretty much in the same condition. Southward it was more open, and a score of miles away merged into the llanos.
“We are in good time; the moon is only just rising, and I don’t think there is anybody before us,” said Guzman, as we neared the old sugar-mill, a dilapidated wooden building, shaded by cebia-trees and sombrero palms.
“But there is somebody behind us,” I said, looking back. “A squadron of cavalry at the least.”
“Griscelli, I suppose, and Carmen. But why is the general bringing so many people with him, I wonder? And don’t I see dogs?”
“Rather! A pack of hounds, I should say.”
“You are right; they are Griscelli’s blood-hounds. Is it possible that a prisoner or a slave has escaped, and Griscelli will ask us to join in the hunt?”
“Join in the hunt! You surely don’t mean that you hunt men in this country?”
“Sometimes—when the men are slaves or rebels. It is a sport the general greatly enjoys. Yet it seems very strange; at this time of night, too—Dios mio! can it be possible?”
“Can what be possible, Captain Guzman?” I exclaimed, in some excitement, for a terrible suspicion had crossed my mind.
“Can what be possible? In Heaven’s name speak out!”
But, instead of answering, Guzman went forward to meet Griscelli. I followed him.
“Good-evening, gentlemen,” said the general; “I am glad you are so punctual. I have brought your friend, Señor Fortescue. As you were taken together, it seems only right that you should be released together. It would be a pity to separate such good friends. You see, I am as good as my word. You don’t speak. Are you not grateful?”
“That depends on the conditions, general.”
“I make no conditions whatever. I let you go—neither more nor less—whither you will. But I must warn you that, twenty minutes after you are gone, I shall lay on my hounds. If you outrun them, well and good; if not, tant pis pour vous. I shall have kept my word. Are you not grateful, señor Fortescue?”
“No; why should I be grateful for a death more terrible than hanging. Kill us at once, and have done with it. You are a disgrace to the noble profession of arms, general, and the time will come—”
“Another word, and I will throw you to the hounds without further parley,” broke in Griscelli, savagely.
“Better keep quiet; there is nothing to be gained by roiling him,” whispered Carmen.
I took his advice and held my peace, all the more willingly as there was something in Carmen’s manner which implied that he did not think our case quite so desperate as might appear.
“Dismount and give up your weapons,” said Griscelli.
Resistance being out of the question, we obeyed with the best grace we could; but I bitterly regretted having to part with the historic Toledo and my horse Pizarro; he had carried me well, and we thoroughly understood each other. The least I could do was to give him his freedom, and, as I patted his neck by way of bidding him farewell, I slipped the bit out of his mouth, and let him go.
“Hallo! What is that—a horse loose? Catch him, some of you,” shouted Griscelli, who had been talking with his huntsman and Captain Guzman, whereupon two of the troopers rode off in pursuit, a proceeding which made Pizarro gallop all the faster, and I knew that, follow him as long as they might, they would not overtake him.
Griscelli resumed his conversation with Captain Guzman, an opportunity by which I profited to glance at the hounds, and though I was unable just then to regard them with very kindly feelings, I could not help admiring them. Taller and more strongly built than fox-hounds, muscular and broad-chested, with pendulous ears and upper lips, and stern, thoughtful faces, they were splendid specimens of the canine race; even sized too, well under control, and in appearance no more ferocious than other hounds. Why should they be? All hounds are blood-hounds in a sense, and it is probably indifferent to them whether they pursue a fox, a deer, or a man; it is entirely a matter of training.
“I am going to let you have more law than I mentioned just now” said Griscelli, turning to Carmen and me. “Captain Guzman, here, and the huntsmen think twenty minutes would not give us much of a run—these hounds are very fast—so I shall make it forty. But you must first submit to a little operation. Make them ready, Jose.”
Whereupon one of the attendants, producing a bottle, smeared our shoes and legs with a liquid which looked like blood, and was, no doubt, intended to insure a good scent and render our escape impossible. While this was going on Carmen and I took off our coats and threw them on the ground.”
“When I give the word you may start,” said Griscelli, “and forty minutes afterward the hounds will be laid on—Now!”
“This way! Toward the hills!” said Carmen. “Are you in good condition?”
“Never better.”
“We must make all the haste we can, before the hounds are laid on. If we can keep this up we shall reach the hills in forty minutes—perhaps less.”
“And then? These hounds will follow us for ever—no possibility of throwing them out—unless—is there a river?”
“None near enough, still—”
“You have hope, then—”
“Just a little—I have an idea—if we can go on running two hours—have you a flint and steel?”
“Yes, and a loaded pistol and a knife.”
“Good! That is better than I thought. But don’t talk. We shall want every bit of breath in our bodies before we have done. This way! By the cane-piece there!”
With heads erect, arms well back, and our chests expanded to their utmost capacity we sped silently onward; and although we do not despair we realize to the full that we are running for our lives; grim Death is on our track and only by God’s help and good fortune can we hope to escape.
Across the savanna, past corn-fields and cane-pieces we race without pause—looking neither to the right nor left—until we reach the road leading to the hills. Here we stop a few seconds, take a few deep breaths, and then, on again. So far, the road has been tolerable, almost level and free from obstructions. But now it begins to rise, and is so rugged withal that we have to slow our speed and pick our way. Farther on it is the dry bed of a torrent, cumbered with loose stones and erratic blocks, among which we have to struggle painfully.
“This is bad,” gasps Carmen. “The hounds must be gaining on us fast.”
“Yes, but the scent will be very catching among these stones. They won’t run fast here. Let us jump from block to block instead of walking over the pebbles. It will make it all the better for us and worse for them.”
On this suggestion we straightway act, but we find the striding and jumping so exhausting, and the risk of slipping and breaking a limb so great, that we are presently compelled to betake ourselves once more to the bed of the stream.
“Never mind,” says Carmen, “we shall soon be out of this valley of stones, and the hounds will not find it easy to pick up the scent hereabout. If we only keep out of their jaws another half-hour!”
“Of course, we shall—and more—I hope for ever. We can go on for another hour. But what is your point?”
“The azuferales.”
“The azuferales! What are the azuferales”
“I cannot explain now. You will see. If we get there ten or fifteen minutes before the hounds we shall have a good chance of escaping them.”
“And how long?”
“That depends—perhaps twenty.”
“Then, in Heaven’s name, lead on. It is life or death? Even five minutes may make all the difference. Which way?”
“By this trail to the right, and through the forest.”
The trail is a broad grass-grown path, not unlike a “ride” in an English wood, bordered by trees and thick undergrowth, but fairly lighted by the moonbeams, and, fortunately for us, rather downhill, with no obstacles more formidable than fallen branches, and here and there a prostrate monarch of the forest, which we easily surmount.
As we go on I notice that the character of the vegetation begins to change. The trees are less leafy, the undergrowth is less dense, and a mephitic odor pervades the air. Presently the foliage disappears altogether, and the trees and bushes are as bare as if they had been stricken with the blast of an Arctic winter; but instead of being whitened with snow or silvered with frost they are covered with an incrustation, which in the brilliant moonlight makes them look like trees and bushes of gold. Over their tops rise faint wreaths of yellowish clouds and the mephitic odor becomes more pronounced.
“At last!” shouts Carmen, as we reach the end of the trail. “At last! Amigo mio, we are saved!”
Before us stretches a wide treeless waste like a turf moor, with a background of sombre forest. The moor, which is broken into humps and hillocks, smokes and boils and babbles like the hell-broth of Macbeth’s witches, and across it winds, snake-wise, a steaming brook. Here and there is a stagnant pool, and underneath can be heard a dull roar, as if an imprisoned ocean were beating on a pebble-strewed shore. There is an unmistakable smell of sulphur, and the ground on which we stand, as well as the moor itself, is of a deep-yellow cast.
This, then, is the azuferales—a region of sulphur springs, a brimstone inferno, a volcano in the making. No hounds will follow us over that hideous heath and through that Stygian stream.
“Can we get across and live?” I ask. “Will it bear?”
“I think so. But out with your knife and cut some twigs; and where are your flint and steel?”
“What are you going to do ?”
“Set the forest on fire—the wind is from us—and instead of following us farther—and who knows that they won’t try?—instead of following us farther they will have to hark back and run for their lives.”
Without another word we set to work gathering twigs, which we place among the trees. Then I dig up with my knife and add to the heap several pieces of the brimstone impregnated turf. This done, I strike a light with my flint and steel.
“Good!” exclaims Carmen. “In five minutes it will be ablaze; in ten, a brisk fire;” and with that we throw on more turf and several heavy branches which, for the moment, almost smother it up.
“Never mind, it still burns, and—hark! What is that?”
“The baying of the hounds and the cries of the hunters. They are nearer than I thought. To the azuferales for our lives!”
The moor, albeit in some places yielding and in others treacherous, did not, as I feared, prove impassable. By threading our way between the smoking sulphur heaps and carefully avoiding the boiling springs we found it possible to get on, yet slowly and with great difficulty; and it soon became evident that, long before we gain the forest the hounds will be on the moor. Their deep-throated baying and the shouts of the field grow every moment louder and more distinct. If we are viewed we shall be lost; for if the blood-hounds catch sight of us not even the terrors of the azuferales will balk them of their prey. And to our dismay the fire does not seem to be taking hold. We can see nothing of it but a few faint sparks gleaming through the bushes.
But where can we hide? The moor is flat and treeless, the forest two or three miles away in a straight line, and we can go neither straight nor fast. If we cower behind one of the smoking brimstone mounds we shall be stifled; if we jump into one of the boiling springs we shall be scalded.
“Where can we hide?” I ask.
“Where can we hide?” repeated Carmen.
“That pool! Don’t you see that, a little farther on, the brook forms a pool, and, though it smokes, I don’t think it is very hot.”
“It is just the place,” and with that Carmen runs forward and plunges in.
I follow him, first taking the precaution to lay my pistol and knife on the edge. The water, though warm, is not uncomfortably hot, and when we sit down our heads are just out of the water.
We are only just in time. Two minutes later the hounds, with a great crash, burst out of the forest, followed at a short interval by half a dozen horsemen.
“Curse this brimstone! It has ruined the scent,” I heard Griscelli say, as the hounds threw up their heads and came to a dead stop. “If I had thought those ladrones would run hither I would not have given them twenty minutes, much less forty. But they cannot be far off; depend upon it, they are hiding somewhere.—Por Dios, Sheba has it! Good dog! Hark to Sheba! Forward, forward!”
It was true. One of the hounds had hit off the line, then followed another and another, and soon the entire pack was once more in full cry. But the scent was very bad, and seemed to grow worse; there was a check every few yards, and when they got to the brook (which had as many turns and twists as a coiled rope), they were completely at fault. Nevertheless, they persevered, questing about all over the moor, except in the neighborhood of the sulphur mounds and the springs.
While this was going on the horsemen had tethered their steeds and were following on foot, riding over the azuferales being manifestly out of the question. Once Griscelli and Sheba, who appeared to be queen of the pack, came so near the pool that if we had not promptly lowered our heads to the level of the water they would certainly have seen us.
“I am afraid they have given us the slip,” I heard Griscelli say. “There is not a particle of scent. But if they have not fallen into one of those springs and got boiled, I’ll have them yet—even though I stop all night, or come again to-morrow.”
“Mira! Mira! General, the forest is on fire!” shouted somebody. “And the horses—see, they are trying to get loose!”
Then followed curses and cries of dismay, the huntsman sounded his horn to call off the hounds and Carmen and I, raising our heads, saw a sight that made us almost shout for joy.
The fire, which all this time must have been smouldering unseen, had burst into a great blaze, trees and bushes were wrapped in sulphurous flames, which, fanned by the breeze, were spreading rapidly. The very turf was aglow; two of the horses had broken loose and were careering madly about; the others were tugging wildly at their lariats.
Meanwhile Griscelli and his companions, followed by the hounds, were making desperate haste to get back to the trail and reach the valley of stones. But the road was rough, and in attempting to take short cuts several of them came to grief. Two fell into a deep pool and had to be fished out. Griscelli put his foot into one of the boiling springs, and, judging from the loud outcry he made, got badly scalded.
By the time the hunters were clear of the moor the loose horses had disappeared in the forest, and the trees on either side of the trail were festooned with flames. Then there was mounting in hot haste, and the riders, led by Griscelli (the two dismounted men holding on to their stirrup leathers), and followed by the howling and terrified hounds, tore off at the top of their speed.
“They are gone, and I don’t think they will be in any hurry to come back,” said Carmen, as he scrambled out of the pool. “It was a narrow shave, though.”
“Very, and we are not out of the wood yet. Suppose the fire sweeps round the moor and gains the forest on the other side?”
“In that case we stand a very good chance of being either roasted or starved, for we have no food, and there is not a living thing on the moor but ourselves.”